


Love Language

by pineovercoat



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: (we're getting flippant with riku's darkness dramatics for fun and no profit ok), Babegate, Comedy, Crack Treated Seriously, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Constipation, Established Relationship, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Post-Canon, SAPPY!!!!, Sappy, Schmoop, That's Not How The Force Works, assholes in love, rated B for Bawdy, riku experiences kill bill sirens at the concept of feelings yet again, there's a kyber crystals tag ahaha so many drive by space fights references ahoy, you've heard of plot what plot now get ready for... whatever the hell this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2020-09-23 18:22:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20344618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pineovercoat/pseuds/pineovercoat
Summary: It all began one morning about two weeks ago, with Riku practicing against barrels in the tower courtyard. Sora had found himself thinking of the way Meg called HerculesWonderboy, and everything spiraled from there.Terms of endearment.They’re a thing that people do. He can do things that people do now, with Riku.





	1. babe: the reckoning

**Author's Note:**

> weeeeeell I'm on the last bit of something that's 10k+ and pretty dang miserable so I needed to release a pressure valve and ended up spitting this out on various breaks at work over the past two days. IT'S #BABEGATE TIME.
> 
> no betas we die like guardians of light, etc
> 
> one year later update: whoa hey, fresh coat of paint and also I do want to make a note that T here is sort of a hard T for a very heavy pour of innuendo. two shots of-

It takes at least twenty one days to make a new practice a habit- Sora’s sure he heard that somewhere. It’s a little iffy where exactly waking up next to Riku falls, since it’s probably a little too passive to really be considered practice, but still—Riku, beside him. The rule rather than the exception. After years of internecine struggles, light and darkness and literal dimensions between them, Sora can hardly believe his luck.

While successive mornings aren’t exactly feasible, being Seekers and all, these days they share first light together more often than not, and that—that’s as everyday miraculous as a sunrise. Sora cherishes every single one, even if Riku gets up at all kinds of forsaken hours. So technically yesterday was only three if you count by the consecutive measure, but twenty-one by the other, more forgiving standard, which has always been more Sora’s speed anyway, and today—today, Riku’s up even earlier than usual.

(It should come as a surprise to no one that he rises with the dawn. Just to work out. Monster.) His broad shoulders don’t quite manage to block the torchlight flickering just beyond the open door, and that’s what wakes Sora. That, and the lack of even breaths moving his head while a familiar pulse drums steadily under his ear.

“Hey,” Sora croaks, shrugging slumber off like a winter coat, snug enough with the knowledge that this is becoming his standard greeting. This is his life now. He wakes up next to Riku often enough to have a _thing_ he says to him. Except when Riku breaks pattern. He throws a bleary-eyed glare at his silhouette, frozen in the doorway. “Figured you’d know by now how I feel about you leaving without saying goodbye.”

It takes a second, but Riku snaps back over the threshold like a rubber band. He pads over, quiet and considerate despite his heavy boots, and Sora’s heart loudly beats its fondness. “_Riku!”_, it sings, and Sora is _thoroughly_ on the same page.

After a moment’s hesitation, his favorite vanishing act takes a seat on the edge of the bed, bending to bury a kiss in Sora’s hair. “Didn’t mean to wake you,” Riku murmurs, punctuating the sentiment with another apology pressed to his forehead.

Sora yawns broadly, nearly catching Riku with his knuckles on the exhale. “Tell that to Xehanort,” he says, settling, leaning into Riku’s warmth.

Riku snorts, a hot puff of air against his temple. When he shakes his head, the ends of his hair tickle Sora’s cheeks, but only just.

“I’ll be back later this morning,” he promises, placing a hand on Sora’s shoulder. His voice is still sleep hoarse. “Go back to bed. Soras don’t exist at this hour.” He pushes him back down into the pillows with the flat of his palm; Sora hums his approval with a soft: “_Mhm. Later, babe.”_

It lands between them uncontested, and Sora starts another silent, tentative count: _one_?

“Right,” Riku breathes, rising. “Later.”

And oh, that's definitive. _One_.

Flush with his success, Sora burrows deep into the still-warm covers, greeted by the lingering note of the cologne Riku took up wearing sometime around when he turned nineteen, thick and intimate and, he imagines, celebratory_._ (In his more ridiculous, infatuated moments, he honestly debates the downsides of stealing whatever bottle Riku uses and spraying everything he owns with it. So far, they’re few, other than the possibility of making the scent less precious.)

Sleep calls, as does duty, apparently, but Riku lingers like the scent—just long enough to make Sora lift his head and squint blearily up at him. His eyes are a little wide, searching, but they fall away quick enough that Sora thinks nothing of it. He’s shy in the morning, no matter what he is at night. Sora burrows further into their bed at the thought. His feet might kick a little.

Riku makes a soft, amused noise; Sora can picture his face clearly—exasperated and fond. Something in Sora’s chest stirs, spurred to life by the thought.

Riku gives his shoulder a little shove, leaves one last parting kiss on what’s visible of Sora’s head through the comforter, and then, just like that, he’s off to save the world. Or at least one of them. If that’s what’s on the morning’s agenda. It might just be a meeting. He did mention a meeting.

“Tell them about the pillow beast,” he calls, an afterthought. If he doesn’t have to...

“_You_ tell them about the pillow beast,” Riku snipes back. “Like recognizes like.”

Sora sticks out his tongue at his back, watching his silhouette turn the corner and disappear.

_There goes my… Riku_, Sora thinks, already feeling himself drifting. He’ll hammer down a better word for the whole thing later.

They’re still figuring it out. Some mornings, like this one, he needs the reminder of their new status quo. But ultimately, with Riku, nothing goes lonely. Good night kisses are matched by good morning kisses, goodbyes answered with hellos, hand-in-hand, side-by-side.

It hasn’t quite been a month yet. Riku’s still hesitant with his heart, like he’s finding his footing on the edge of the cliff, but Sora—well, he’s never been one to look when he has the option of leaping, even if the water looks perilous and deep. And he can’t wait for all this to fall on the other side of routine—for the moment Riku touches him and it’s pure muscle memory. Ever the optimist, he ticks off another day in his head,_ twenty-two, _and with that, finally surrenders himself to the warm embrace of darkness.

-

So, babe.

It’s... a thing.

It could be a thing.

He wants it to be a thing.

It all began one morning, something like two weeks ago, at roughly the half-life of their… well, them. Sora had crept out of their bedroom and followed Riku to where he liked to practice his forms against the barrels stacked in the tower courtyard, and stood there staring pink-cheeked and self-satisfied at the sight of his… well. At the sight of Riku outshining the morning sun, really. At a loss for words, he’d found himself thinking of the peculiar lilt in Meg's voice, the particular pride in the way she called Herc_ Wonderboy_. Everything had spiraled from there.

Terms of endearment. They’re a thing people do. He can do things people do now, with Riku.

He considers the notion as he finally rouses. He stares it pointedly into the pillow beside him, still faintly dented from Riku’s head, then flings one of the blankets away about it. After the brief fit of pique, he sits with it for a good long while in the dark, and then, bold, he says it to the empty room, the word floating there like an—ugh, a thing that floats, whatever. Butterflies promptly manifest in his stomach—the really rowdy, possibly bioluminescent kind. They’re already putting up curtains and picking out colors, the presumptive jerks. It figures. The paopu doesn’t fall far from the tree or something.

His phone dings with a message—Chip and Dale—which Sora barely glances at before sidelining in favor of flopping face-first into Riku’s pillow. For half a moment, he considers shouting into it, if only to outperform the butterflies. The air around him still swells with the echoes of his reckless daring, his devil-may-care romanticism, his—_babe_. It surrounds him, building and building, higher and higher—so clearly whatever Riku has is catching. Isn’t fabric supposed to dampen sound? He casts out a hand for one of the blankets he kicked off, desperate.

“Sora.”

Sora freezes.

“You know, time’s funny here, but I think I can confidently say it’s later.”

Speak of the Darkside, and it will surely appear; Sora turns to find Riku smiling at him from just beyond the door, patient, like he has to wait to be invited in.

(Once, when they had visited Halloweentown together, before all of this, Sora had been the one on the other end of that red tape. It hadn’t taken long for Riku to figure out the unique technicalities of vampirism, and he’d abandoned all dignity in favor of racing to the next door, holding permission over Sora’s head at the threshold (and every one after) and Sora- Sora had glared daggers at his smug, satisfied face from the other side of each and every last doorframe, his chest heaving for breath, his eyes inexplicably fixed on that dumb grin and the happy flush that had rushed to Riku’s cheeks. It was an old friend, he’d realized—a smile he’d known well when they were both kids, one that screamed: _Oh yeah? Make me. _

That whole day, Sora hadn’t been sure whether he wanted to deck him or kiss him. It took that day to realize that it was like that—_he_’d been like that—for a good long while.

He’s never been one to dwell on wasted time, but he does wish he could tell himself that the right answer is ‘_or kiss him’_, every time.)

“Hey,” Sora says, schooling his face, casual as can be.

“Hey. Still in bed?”

Sora lifts the comforter in lieu of an answer, a little bit of his own _make me_, and Riku climbs in without missing a beat, covering him better than any blanket ever could. Invitation enough, apparently._ You really do catch more flies with honey,_ Sora thinks, smug.

“Just keeping it warm.” He tucks the covers snug around them both. “How was it?"

“Like it always is.” Riku shrugs. It’s a little wasted in the cocoon of comforters, but Sora appreciates the effort of his apathy. “Some increased Heartless presence in other worlds. Nothing as bad as a _pillow, _though—”

“Shut _up_.” He knows it was a Zillo Beast. Riku knows he knows it was a Zillo Beast, the jerk.

“—but Mickey did ask me to talk with him about it later today.”

Sora bites his lip. “So soon?” But it's only a rote protest. There’s already a notification blinking on his own gummiphone. Always on call. He sighs.

“It won’t take long." Riku shimmies down the mattress to bump their noses together, penitent—his is a little cold, which Sora protests, _loudly_. He ignores Sora’s squawking in favor of brushing his wind-chilled cheek along the defenseless planes of Sora’s face.

“_Nooo_,” Sora cries, shrinking away, and Riku silences him with a fond kiss to each eyelid, more than sufficiently warm—an acceptable compromise. He settles, and so does Riku, pushing his nose into the dark fall of Sora’s hair with a soft, contented sigh. He makes a noise low in his chest, and then, apparently not quite satisfied, hauls Sora close enough to feel his heartbeat.

The butterflies have a fit.

“Hey,” Riku says, pulling away after a long moment curled close, no sound between them but the harmony of their breathing. “Speaking of that galaxy far away...”

“Far, far,” Sora corrects, unable to keep the suspicion—accusation, really—out of his tone. Meetings are one thing. _Business trips_ are another. And it’s too cozy for bad news. "What, you gonna be racking up some gummimiles?"

Riku flicks his forehead. “No.” He pauses and then he cants his head, considering. “Well, actually, _yeah,_ but what I was going to say is—Chip and Dale got our _presents_ back from the Moogles. Said they're stable, should be fine to use. Not ideal for any kind of synthesis, though, even if they are crystals. You can go pick yours up anytime.”

Sora rolls his eyes. “You knew that already._ I_ knew that already.”

"Doesn't hurt to be sure." His knuckles skim over Sora's heart. “They’re still missing some data on mine, though. Might take a little more cooperation.”

Sora sniffs. He’s no expert, but when Riku’s had made the change from red to white, the fine crack in its core knit together with light, it had felt like the most stable thing in the universe. Like the ground beneath their feet: a fact. “Data’s boring.” He sticks his nose in the air, then cocks his head. “_Dates _aren’t.”

"Yeah?" Riku's mouth twitches. "You asking me out?"

Now there’s a thought. A spark lights in his ribcage and at his fingertips. He reaches out to hook the corners of Riku’s mouth with his thumbs, intent on coaxing them into the smile he knows they want to form. “Only if you say yes. You gonna say yes? Because if you don’t, you can forget I ever—”

“Historically I don’t.” Riku shoves his questing hands away with a snort. “Also, yes.”

“_Yes!_” Sora parrots, then crows, giddy with it. “Alright. End of the week. Twilight Town. I'm cooking! Be there or be square.”

Riku looks at him like he’s lost his mind, but also a little bit like he’s been witness to a miracle; Sora knows the feeling.

"Alright,” he concedes, surrendering at last to the smile. “I’ll see you then."

Sora flips up onto his elbows and hoists himself up over Riku. "See me tonight," he throws back, the thrill of the day’s successes a full blown livewire inside of him. Energy sparks, fizzles, and streams out of him now—but then, Riku sets him off. Always has. It’s good that he’s something of a siphon, somewhere to direct and put all of it.

“_C’mooon_,” Sora wheedles, his eyes set on the prize. It’s probably too early to pepper it in again, a little like throwing rocks at a pond that just quit rippling, but he's allowed to think it, if only for himself. _Babe_. “Say you will.”

“I’ll see you tonight,” Riku agrees, his voice full of promise.

Sora grins. He lowers the volume and threads his fingers through Riku’s hair, taking special care to let his thumb linger over the shell of Riku’s ear.

"See me now," he orders, whisper-soft.

Riku’s eyes widen, magnetized, crackling with the same electricity Sora knows he’s giving off freely.

He sounds just as charged when he answers:

“Yes, _sir_.”

-

It would be generous to say Sora gets a late start to the morning. Without the excuse of sleeping in, Riku is just plain late, but it’s not as if either of them have a nine to five anyway. Time doesn’t strictly exist in the Realms Between; observing it is more of a matter of convenience and a choice of which clock to follow. But Riku goes, released to the worlds after one last lingering kiss, and when he walks, there’s more than a bit of that old strut to his step, quietly sly like his smiles. Sora watches for more than one reason, fondly considering his own many reasons to strut. Favorable results, for one.

He spends the rest of the early afternoon on errands. The visit to Chip and Dale goes as smoothly as it ever does; he leaves their shop with his head full of chatter, his wallet more than a little bit lighter, and his pockets bulging. Chief amongst his prizes is the crystal Riku had mentioned. Blue and bright and beautiful, it hums at a strange pitch, one that he’s certain somehow matches his own frequency—or something like that, anyway. Regardless of the finer points of space rocks, it feels close to him in much the same way his keyblade does, suffused with the feeling of a meteor streaking across the sky. Sora rolls it in his fingers and wonders: does it feel the same for Riku? Does he feel the same compulsion to keep it close? And do the crystals miss each other? They might even be a set. They came from the same cave, if he remembers right.

He could ask. That’s an option now. And just like that, the urge to talk to him grips him as hard as it ever has—on the islands, on any number of journeys, and now, on an otherwise unremarkable afternoon while the stars wink suggestions at him from the sky. And hey—what’s stopping him? Certainly not any dimensional rifts or machinations of shadowy organizations or pre-paid cosmic prices. The day is full and rife with potential, just like his phone’s battery.

No getting rid of me now, Sora thinks smugly. The camera goes off with an effervescent click.

-date night ideas:  
-his&his glowing blue space rocks  
-candles for the table?  
-what do you think?

[ riku !!! :/ ]: _That is not a toy._

-aw come on  
-look at it  
-it reminds me of you

[ riku !!! :/ ]:_ This is a shared server, Sora._

-what? I was just gonna say it’s big  
-like your eyes.

[ riku !!! :/ ]: _Sora._

-and generous

[ riku !!! :/ ]: _Like my eyes?_

-like your biceps

[ riku !!! :/ ]:_ My biceps are generous?_

-no they’re big keep up  
-ok but now that you mention it  
-gift that keeps on giving  
-and the entire gummicloud can quote me on that  
-HOW'S IT GOING GUYS  
-RIKU CAN BENCHPRESS ME

[ riku !!! :/ ]: _Sora!_  
  
They’re too old for scorecards, and they mostly break even anyway. It doesn’t stop him from shooting off a winking face and declaring it his victory.

-

So.

The thing is—

The thing _is_, after everything they’ve been through, thinking of Riku as his boyfriend (which—well, yeah, he _is,_ thank you very much) feels a little anticlimactic. _Lover_ kind of makes him want to die, but not necessarily in a bad way. Just in a _my-shoulders-are-now-fused-to-my-ears-and-I-want-to-die_ way. Which is pretty normal, as far as his experience of experiencing feelings goes.

But.

But.

Okay, admittedly it is a bit of a hard sell when he flips the script, because the notion of Riku saying his own name with any less frequency makes his nose wrinkle—he _likes_ the way Riku says his name. No one else manages to fit all the things he does into its two short syllables. He’s not so cocky as to assume he has the same talent for it, but he _hopes_ Riku feels the same way—like his name, and everything else that comes with it, is safe with Sora.

And that’s the thing-—the _everything_ that comes with it. World after world, he’d watched everyone else’s story unfold—Belle reconciling with the Beast, Mulan and Shang fighting side by side, Aladdin showing Jasmine the world. Now, he _gets_ it. _Me too_, he wants to say, proud. Aurora has Philip. He’s got Riku.

(And there’s the fact that, as options go, nothing else exactly functions as affectionate direct-address. _Hello, boyfriend Riku._ Who is he, Tron?)

Of course, the moment he gives it legs, the idea refuses to give him a moment’s peace. It hounds him—from the very first try that morning in the Mysterious Tower through all the following days, and by number twenty-five, Sora has zeroed the scale, weighed the options again, and for two crazed days even considered referring to Riku as his _fella _if only it didn’t 1.), remind him so much of the King, and 2.), increase the odds on Riku disappearing for another year. (Currently as low as they’ve ever been.)

(Okay, well, no, days at a time is like, bog standard—but it’s for work and also he texts, so it’s okay. Radio silence would be another story entirely.

Not that he has room to talk. But being technically dead is different.

Anyway.)

Days pass. The impulse doesn’t. They both flit in and out of the Tower, orbiting around each other like twin stars all the while. Their connection is practically tangible, an easy thing to tug on when it’s needed, and even that’s not enough to put it out of his mind. He finds himself flipping open his gummiphone and looking at the stupid :/ next to Riku’s name in his contacts, and the horrible photo of him mid-bite of eel matelote next to that (_if you don’t delete that_—whatever the threat was, he never followed through). He spirals deeper into his gallery of photos and finds his own bleeding heart all over it—Riku, tensed and focused in the captain’s seat—Riku, mid-spar with Terra, breathtakingly fierce with Keyblade in hand—Riku, lying next to him, untroubled in sleep—

What can he do but run through the gamut of silly pet-names all over again? Ridiculous as it sounds, the butterflies show up for _all _of them. Probably less because of any single one of them than what they represent—like, Riku _is_ his sweetheart, in every sense of the word. Even if sweetheart is kind of a mouthful. Even if it makes his face do things.

But babe. That’s manageable. Bite-size, even. And not nearly sappy enough for Riku to make fun of him, either. The first try was well received enough! Like, the world didn’t end in a conflagration of darkness, and no one disappeared or was otherwise separated heart from body. Xehanort, as far as Sora knows, is still routed. And the door to their bedroom was already open that first time, so no Riku-brand freak outs there.

It nips at his heels even now, insistent, the joyous skip of his heart egging him on worse than his pride_. _Or maybe the pair of them are co-conspirators._ What's stopping you? _they insist_. _And really, what is? They’re dating. It’s date night. In _Twilight Town, _of all places, and in Le Grand Bistrot. If there’s a better time or place for daring than a kitchen with atmospheric lighting, he hasn’t found it.

So, gummiphone in hand, Sora ticks off the next of what he hopes will be many—a second try for a new habit. And because no one is here to make fun of him for not using his thumbs to type, he doesn't even have to pretend to bother.

_hey babe!!! _he picks out_. _Alright_. _Hardest part over and done. Time to stick the landing. -_can you pick up some truffle oil on your way? me and little chef are up to our eyeballs in meal prep and you’re our only hope_

About five minutes later, his phone chimes.

_-Sure._

Relief floods through him. That’s about as Riku a response as anyone could hope to get.

So far, so good.

-

The kitchen door creaks open in about an hour’s time; Sora glances up, his lips pursed. If it’s Hayner, Pence, and Olette again, he’s chasing them out with a spoon—what about _private dinner_ isn’t clear?

To his delight, it is not.

Riku hovers on the threshold, as is his wont. There’s a strange look on his face and a glass bottle in his right hand. A concentrated glint of light pokes out of his jacket pocket—so he _didn’_t forget the mood lighting. That’s Riku, Sora thinks, a grin stretching his face. Dependable to a fault.

Sora makes the move for him, ambushing Riku on sight, utterly thwarting his attempts to close the door behind him politely. He follows the surprise attack up with a hello kiss, and the strange look melts away, replaced with easy affection. Riku leans into him heavily and immediately, swaying forwards when he pulls away—it’s been a handful of weeks now, and that moment of given chase Sora’s come to expect _still_ feels better than sitting pretty at the top of the Coliseum rankings. He rewards him with another kiss for it, leaving a smear of flour on Riku’s cheek with his thumb like he’s planting a flag. Riku’s mouth falls open, a little, and, extremely self-satisfied, Sora pivots on his heel, off to the next thing.

“Sora,” Riku calls after him. His voice sounds funny. “The truffle oil.”

“Oh! _Thanks_, babe,” he enthuses, slipping the bottle from his fingers. He goes up on the balls of his feet to drop another kiss to the tip of Riku’s nose, and his eyes cross, just a little. Sora’s heart does a somersault. “Hope you came hungry! And helpful.”

“Long day. I could eat.” His nose scrunches. He rubs it absently with his index finger, and Sora starts wondering when exactly his internal organs got so good at gymnastics. Maybe around the time they all decided to turn into colorful flying insects. “What, playing personal shopper wasn’t enough?”

“Had to get you here somehow,” Sora chirps, making a vigorous shoo-ing motion with both hands. “Don’t see nearly enough of you.” He peeks around his back and leers half-heartedly; Riku rolls his eyes. “Now go wash your hands and mince that garlic over there.”

Riku steadies the bottle before it flies across the room, shakes his head, and smiles. “Yes, sir.”

Sora beams back at him, mentally chalking off another tally mark. Three down.

He sneaks a couple more in the week that follows. Riku is… Riku about it, which Sora chooses to interpret as mission: success.

-

On the dawn of the thirty-first morning, Sora wakes up cold. Even after all his travels, the cold is one thing he’s never gotten used to. Good thing he sleeps with a living furnace.

Sora lets out a sleepy snuffle, throwing an arm out to his side. Empty. Huh. And where _is_ his living furnace? He lifts his head, not quite ready to open his eyes. Voices drift around him, hushed and urgent like the breeze cutting through the window.

“—_if you wanna look into it, Riku, then I’m right behind ya…. but you should know that I don’t really-”_

_“I realize how it sounds, but_—_”_

“Babe,” Sora bleats, lost without his space heater. “Where’d you—”

“Here, Sora,” comes the response. Hoarse. Distant. Somewhere close to his ankles at the foot of the bed.

“Okay,” he says, brows furrowed, still mostly asleep. And the follow up, which Riku should know to provide by now: “_Why’d _you—?”

Riku shushes him gently, but even a gentle shush is enough to make him ornery. He’s_ cold_. Riku has—okay, he has more than one job, but still.

“Whozzat?”

Riku pats his blanketed knee, distracted. His focus is keen on the gummiphone’s screen; he doesn’t answer. Well, doesn’t answer _him_, at least. Sora cocks his head, listening for the voice on the other end of the line. It’s bright and tinny and familiar.

“—_if you’re sure_...”

Must be the King. Huh. What time is it, even? He probably needs to be wearing more than boxers for the periphery of this conversation.

“_I am.”_

Groaning, he slaps out a hand, making several fumbling attempts at the chest of drawers. His hand connects with something cool and glassy, and his breath catches at the sudden feeling of calm and security. Puzzled, he emerges from his blanket fort to find his hand resting on top of a white crystal—Riku’s, oh, what was it again—keeper crystal? Sora tests its point with the pad of his pointer finger, momentarily derailed by the sight of it. It had been so angry and red when Riku had chosen it, livid like a scar, and then Riku had done—something. A miracle, like he does. Sora bites his lip, proud. If his own feels like a comet, then Riku’s is gravity.

He sets it down carefully and finds the nearest shirt: Riku’s—clean, white, and unmistakably rumpled. _That's me_, Sora thinks, filled with his own unique pride as he shakes it out. _I’m the wrinkles in his clothes. _He drags the shirt over his head in three quick, efficient tugs, and leans decisively into frame.

“Hey, no business in the bedroom.” He pauses, considering.

“_Okayifthat’sallI’llcheckinwithyoulater-_” Riku spits, disconnecting the call with a lightning speed Sora’s only seen in battle. He glares half heartedly, pink-cheeked, and then his eyes snag on the deep cut of his too-large t-shirt draped over Sora’s collarbones. He swallows audibly.

Sora flops backward, stifling a grin. _Hook, line..._

“Was that the King?” He pushes his hands high above his head and sprawls out into a huge, toe-curling stretch—one that hopefully communicates ‘_sprawl on top of me’_, because he’s putting his all into projecting it. “Hey, can you put a bug in his ear—when do we get missions together? Just the two of us?” Everyone else gets teams—Ven and Kairi have had their own ship for _months_. “I think it’s time.”

Riku sets the gummiphone on the bedside table with a sharp click. The very next second, he’s leaning over and pressing his lips to Sora’s throat with the faintest pressure; Sora’s eyes flutter shut. _Sinker._

“About that,” he murmurs, his breath hot on Sora’s neck.

Always a thrill to find it's not just their hearts that are in tune, Sora thinks, gratified—and very warm indeed.

-

All of their running counts graduate with them from the Mysterious Tower to the gummiship, easy as that, and Sora can hardly believe his good fortune. The two of them, and all the worlds at their feet! Maybe it has nothing to do with fortune at all, and everything to do with Riku’s secret meetings. Regardless, Sora’s not one to look for presents in horse teeth or whatever it is Herc likes to say, because it becomes a habit to lose entire mornings to Riku.

There’s breakfast, answering messages, charting courses, stealing Riku’s jackets, bickering over coffee—namely, _routine_. Riku tries to be casual about the fact that he leaves a space next to him in the booth, as if it’s not a given that Sora will bury himself in his side now that they’re both fortunate enough to be existing in the same space. That’s my _boyfriend_, Sora finds himself thinking, apropos of nothing, and reels. He’s ready to shout it to the stars. Or to the bright overhead lights of the ship’s hold. It feels like another threshold they’ve given each other permission to cross. It doesn’t take long at all to settle into what’s on the other side, to adjust to the new waters.

He’s a lucky guy. There are the obvious reasons (like his now doubled, very comfortable, and _fantastic_ smelling wardrobe) but like—apparently Riku _likes_ handling their correspondence with Radiant Garden and Disney Castle. That frees Sora up to spend his time catnapping near or on him, because drafting up mission reports is for suckers. Riku, as it turns out, is kind of a sucker. Imagine explaining that to his fourteen year old self. _Well, he’s incredible, duh_, he pictures telling a bright eyed and disbelieving fourteen year old Sora,_ but also he folds his socks and he asks for extra homework. Also he gets this really cute wrinkle between his eyebrows when he’s glaring at his phone and_—

Right now Riku and his cute angry wrinkle are poking away at a report for Master Yen Sid on the process of uncorrupting those... kayak? karat? karma? crystals. Something about the heart of stars and whether or not that’s as literal a description as they’re used to. Because of course Riku just can’t enjoy a red laser sword for what it is. Although_,_ Sora thinks to himself, recalling Xemnas’ favored weapons with a wince—that’s at least a _little_ bit founded.

He surreptitiously eyes Riku’s side, where his shirt has been inching higher up his hip for the past twenty minutes. The scar’s old, completely knit together now, but he knows it still hurts him from time to time, same as his wrist. Whenever he catches himself thinking about it for more than a second, it floors him. Riku got that—Riku_ did_ that—for him. He’s done a lot of things for him. Even_ lover_ feels a little less shoulder-scrunchy every day.

Giving up on sly entirely, he reaches out to brush his fingers over the waxy scar tissue, long since faded. Weird how it healed same as—

Riku’s fingers wrap around his wrist, stopping him short. Sora winces. _Busted_. He hazards a glance up, testing the waters, and is met with the king of all unimpressed stares. It’d be nice to have one like that- he’ll have to practice in the mirror later.

“Hi,” Sora says, smiling. He flexes his hand, but Riku’s hold is strong.

“Hi.” He lifts a single eyebrow. “What are you doing?”

“Saying hi,” he hedges.

“Really?” Riku twists to look at his own hip, then back down at Sora, the beginnings of his own smile pulling at the right corner of his mouth. “Didn’t know that was the common parlance.”

“Common parlance,” Sora snipes back, outright grinning now. He loves Riku so much it’s stupid. “Maybe if you didn’t always have your nose stuck in a book. You’re looking for a crick in the neck.”

“No need,” Riku says sedately. “I already have you.” Contrary to his words, his palm settles over Sora’s cheek, his thumb tender where it brushes the skin at the corner of Sora’s eyes.

“Aw, babe.” What’s the count now? Not five yet, right? Sora tips his head into the touch. “I bet you say that to all the boys.”

His hand stills. “Sora,” he repeats, voice small. His eyes go soft, as sudden as a cloud passing over the sun, and Sora’s heart throbs in response. It’s too much; Sora tweaks his ear to break the tension, overwhelmed by the depth of emotion he finds in that gaze.

“That’s my name!” he sings, going in for the kiss Riku’s been teasing; Riku meets him halfway, terribly gentle, and Sora’s smile breaks it long before any natural pause can. He pulls back to look at him, breathless.

“I have one too, you know,” Riku murmurs, the haze slowly clearing from his eyes. His hands slide to Sora’s sides, steadying.

It takes a second to recall what they were talking about. Sora blinks, moving out of the circle of his arms. “I know that,” he says, confused.

Riku’s hands fall into the empty space between them. His fingers curl loosely into his palm.

“Wasn’t sure you remembered,” he says blandly.

He’s worn a ton of strange looks in his time, the weirdest of which he’s always saved for horizons, but this one is a particularly tough nut to crack. Sora already has his mouth half open to ask him about whatever it is that’s come over him, but the ship’s system chimes with the King’s personal tone—in all likelihood, their next emergency.

It’ll have to wait for later.


	2. babe 2: riku in the city

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ever dragged yourself in the first sentence of an update? I think it builds character. 
> 
> went back in and added some stuff to pad out the first chapter, since I thought it needed a spitshine to gel with... whatever possessed me for the rest. Present tense is not one of my strengths, so this was an extended exercise in banging my head against a wall, but I was determined to see this mutated shitpost through. Whatever it is, it's done. 😂 Mostly I wanted to make fun of Riku because he's my favorite and that's how it goes, but then when I realized it was approaching 10k+ territory, I was like [slaps some emotional resolution on as duct tape] _pocket sand_\- thanks once again to ann for the look over and the cheerleading!!!
> 
> so! without further ado! Avengers: Age of Babe. 2001: A Babe Odyssey. Rise of the Planet of the Babe. Babe: Resurrection. 28 Babes Later-

True to form_, _later doesn’t happen for a good long while. 

The call turns out to be an emergency of the Nobody persuasion. After that’s resolved, a situation of the Heartless variety presents itself. And then, after _that_—

Well, it's a busy life, being a bona-fide hero (even_ Phil _doesn't throw a junior in front of it anymore). Unfortunately ‘busy’ sometimes means collecting losses as well as dishing them out, but what else is new? The peculiar strength of this most recent crop of Heartless isn’t any help. Even Riku’s off his rhythm, surprise surprise. His first few barrier spells of the day don’t hold up the way they usually do, but in the interest of fairness, there’s no way for Riku to conjure a barrier between Sora and his own recklessness. Every single one of the bumps and bruises he takes home as souvenirs are his own fault. Riku’s are strictly forced errors, as always. 

Show-off.

Beating back the tide eats up most of the evening, not to mention the rest of his capacity for concern. Any trace of their earlier not-discussion is long gone, forced out by instinct and its good and very demanding friend adrenaline. When the battle’s done, Sora doesn’t go to bed so much as trip and fall through the gummiship’s bay doors and directly into their quarters. Exhaustion does what a thousand enemies couldn’t; anything but sleep is so far off the radar it might as well not exist. 

“Sora, wait—” Riku calls after him.

Sora knows what he wants, and isn’t having any of it. “Heal yourself _first_,” he shouts over his shoulder, making a beeline for the mattress. 

Riku pretends not to hear and rattles off something about needing to ping a quick update to the King, maybe add a note or two to the combo crystals, _it’ll only be a minute_, and strides off to the cockpit, leaving Sora to wince his way through his many many layers alone. It feels a bit tactless to think of it as a Sisyphean task (weird dude. Absolutely ripped, though), but then he does usually have _help_. Setting his jaw, he performs to the best of his ability while remaining stubbornly bellyflopped. Shoes first. No shoes on the bed by decree of the resident king of killjoys. Next, outerwear. _Somehow._ He should pay more attention; Riku’s always so deft with the closures. Clearly he’s grown spoiled and lazy, but gift horses and all.

“Everything under control over there?”

“M’fine," Sora chirps, facedown and half trapped in a jacket he probably should have bothered unzipping first. Better now that his right hand is here. "Buh I dink mm turrinburple-"

“Sorry.” Riku’s voice curls itself around the words, haughty and amused. “Didn’t catch that.”

“I’m turning _purple_," Sora groans, resurfacing to shuck an armguard in Riku's general direction. He has high hopes it’ll hit him in the face. It doesn’t. 

Riku hmms. “Is it too late for a second opinion?”

The second gauntlet, ardently thrown, doesn’t make impact either. No justice in the worlds. He’s down to an undershirt and briefs now, and more than content to sleep in his clothes like a monster. Just so long as he doesn’t wake up three inches too tall for them again. The novelty wears thin fast. 

Huffing his bitter complaint, Sora reaches around to poke at a tender spot on his back.

“_C’mon_," he whines at Riku. "Come check.”

There’s a brief silence—seriously, stompy boots, _how?_—and then Sora registers the faint rustle of cloth as it’s pushed up his spine. A warm, firm touch follows. 

“Well.” His tone is still droll, though now there’s an undercurrent of something that Sora can’t quite pin down—fatigue, maybe. “It’s a look, alright. Not for me, but at least it brings out your eyes.”

“I’ll bring out your eyes,” Sora threatens half-heartedly, then promptly yawns. “Good one, Sora.” 

“Thanks.” He folds his arms, the better to pillow his head—at least until Riku gets himself in place. “You know, you should try it sometime,” he says idly, rearranging himself again, not quite able to find comfortable. Probably because it’s with his man. “Bet you’d pull it off."

Riku makes a noise that somehow manages to be extremely noncommittal. He leaves it at that and begins assessing the damage in earnest, and, satisfied he’s in good hands, Sora drifts. _Bet you’d pull it off_. Now there’s a thought. Neither of them have worn anything that wasn’t specifically designed and magically conjured with them in mind for _years_. The last time he picked his own clothes, he still had his baby fat. It’s a weird reversal, but he doesn’t dwell on it—he’s seen no end of those in his lifetime, and with the benefit of hindsight it definitely seems like the better option to leave all things fashion up to the good fairies (given the opportunity, he'd still go for a sleeveless romper). It works out for everyone involved, anyway—the ladies get to stretch their legs, the magic on their new duds isn’t anything to sniff at, and red and black suit him just fine. In the same vein, he’s never had cause to complain about any of Riku’s ensembles. 

Sora twists to eye him and hey, whaddya know, still no complaints. But he’d look good in red and black. Riku’s height is a double-edged sword—like on the one hand, yes, thanks, thank you, but on the other, he’s just too tall to share clothes the same way. Given how often Sora helps himself to his, wears them just the same as his heart on his sleeve, it would only be fair. Something haughty that he didn’t know lived in his chest puffs up at the thought of Riku walking around in _his_ colors. But given the circumstances surrounding the last time he wore those particular shades, Riku probably isn’t interested. Separate from said circumstances, it really wasn’t the worst look (judging strictly by color, not silhouette—it’s in his nature to be forgiving, after all). 

Sora cants his head, speculative.

"Something on my face?" Riku mutters, eyes pinned to Sora’s back. The corner of his mouth creases, tensed; Sora wants to kiss it soft and open.

“Yeah.” He grins. “It’s horrible. And I think it’s stuck.” 

He doesn’t get a laugh _or_ a groan for the trouble. “Tough crowd,” he sighs, and slips back into daydreams. Hard to picture Riku in anything but his usual (he’d gotten as daring as a black and yellow windbreaker once, and Sora hadn’t had the heart to tell him he looked like a bee), but purple—purple is both close enough to and far enough from blue to make it an idea worth floating. He gives it the old Mark of Mastery try. 

"Hey, actually, why _don’t _you wear it more? Oh, _ow_.”

“What?” Riku pauses, distracted, sucking in a melodramatic breath at what Sora’s sure is nothing more than a handful of bruises that look much worse than they feel—though he can’t say that for sure himself. If he had eyes in the back of his head, he wouldn’t be in this situation. Riku’s voice hikes, like he can’t believe this is what they’re talking about. “Purple?"

"Yeah!" He only just manages to keep himself from answering Riku’s concern with a hiss of his own, so Riku carries on, all steady hands and warm, soft words.

"I don’t know. Seems a little aggressive.”

“Yellow’s not?” Not that he doesn't like it, he loves it, Riku is his favorite bee, but there's a point he’s trying to make.

“It’s sanguine,” Riku deflects. He prods at the edge of one of the sorer spots, and Sora can’t hold in a pained hiss this time. “This looks not fun, Sora.”

“It _feels_ not fun.” Sora lets out a full body groan to really bring it home. Like, hey—it _was_ an open invitation. He feels completely justified in engaging in some good-natured whining. “My arms are heavy.” 

Instead of the ribbing Sora expects, Riku’s good-natured quiet shifts into strained silence. Sora swears the light in the room darkens by degrees. _Aw, Riku._ And he’s been so good about people fighting their own battles lately, too.

“I wasn’t there,” he murmurs, unfocused, almost like he doesn’t realize he’s saying it out loud. His palm goes flat on Sora’s back, then twitches inward. 

It’s not worth rolling his eyes when Riku can’t see him doing it, but he does it anyway, if only for his own peace of mind.

“What are you _talking _about?" Sora huffs, reaching back blindly to grab hold of Riku. His hand slides off his elbow with a smack, the angle too awkward to maintain. "You were everywhere!" His tone turns accusatory. "You probably had it worse than I do." Have, honestly- Sora isn’t holding his breath that Riku, choosy as he is, listened to his earlier command.

The absolute nothing that follows is telling. Riku needs a new strategy; this one hasn’t worked since he was fifteen years old. _Everyone_ knows he’s allergic to taking care of himself first when at any given moment someone out there in the worlds could be suffering from something worse. Like a papercut. Martyr. Sora twists to face him, and finds him pointedly staring at the floor—lips pursed, jaw set. 

“I _know _you can see me, Eeyore._” _He has half a mind to bring up the blindfold.

A muscle in Riku’s jaw tics, but he gives no other indication he’s heard. The standoff stretches, unfairly elastic—Riku’s always had the advantage in games of keepaway. But if that’s his strength, then Sora’s superpower is sheer stubbornness and strength of will. He jerks his chin, gesturing for Riku to just sit down already. 

Solemn, he slips off his boots and obeys. The next second, he’s levering himself down onto the edge of the bed, one foot tucked under his thigh and the other firmly on the floor. It's a marked improvement over running away, but Sora still gives that foot the hairiest eyeball he's ever given anything. 

"What's _that _about?" he demands. _The floor is lava,_ _and _I_ am your boyfriend. _What did they ask for their own ship for, anyway?"Get in here and be my hot water bottle already.” 

Riku hums, duly chastised. His fingers twitch back to life, and the gentle, clinical touch Sora had so enjoyed a few minutes before now follows the path of his spine to his neck. There, Riku brushes Sora’s hair aside with a sweep of his knuckles. 

His penitent act is betrayed by the rebellious glint in his eye. 

“I don't know,” he begins, his voice going low, lazy, promising. 

“Oh?” says Sora. Ornery is good—he can do ornery. 

His hand trails higher. “Yeah. I think you're supposed to ice that sort of thing.” The tips of his fingers grow cold with frost.

Sora manfully doesn’t shriek. He _does_ cross half the length of the cot in a single clumsy roll, flinging an accusatory finger in Riku's direction. “_Get out!” _he cries. His teeth back him up, chattering viciously. At least _you’re_ in my corner, Sora thinks bitterly.

Riku raises an eyebrow. There’s a look on his face, like he thinks he’s won something. It’s attractive, like all the looks on his attractive face, which is infuriating, because what he’s bought himself with his cheek shouldn’t be prolonged admiring stares—it should be_ stone cold vengeance_. In the form of a knuckle sandwich.

Unruffled, Riku flicks droplets of cool water from his fingertips. “I think I’m getting some mixed signals here.”

_Mixed signals_. The nerve. Sora sucks in a shivering breath, shoving his hands into his armpits for warmth. “Does this ship have a couch? Cause you are _on it,_ mister.”

Riku, the unrepentant _jerk_, laughs. It’s one of those full body laughs, the kind where his shoulders and even his eyes fold up, like he’s supposed to be charming or something. “It doesn’t. And I think I’m a little big for the chairs. Sanctuary?”

The audacity. The unmitigated—Sora glowers at Riku’s stupid glowing face. He wants to bury his fingers in his hair, wants to shove his nose against the cut of his jaw just to catch a lingering note of fragrance, wants to be bundled up with him in a blanket and hemmed in by his _little big for the chairs_ body until morning already. _Sanctuary_.

He jabs a decisive finger at the door.

Riku rises, palms held up and out in surrender. “Alright,” he concedes. “To exile I go.”

He makes it maybe two steps before Sora crumbles like shortcrust. 

“_Rikuuu_,” he whines, leaping out after him, blanket cape billowing behind him as he paws for a grip on his wrist. “Fine. You can come back, but you have to kiss it better.”

Riku laughs again, his shoulders shaking minutely as he allows Sora to tug him into the cot and mostly onto the horizontal plane. He’s still propped up on an elbow, next to him but not quite touching, like a parallel line—but what would Riku be if he wasn’t obstinate? A lot less fun to annoy, for starters.

"Kiss _what_ better?"

"_All_ of it.” Sora drapes the blanket over Riku’s shoulders, half a mantle, half a lasso, and uses it to haul him in bit by bit, taking a good mile for every one of his ceded inches. “You can _start_ with my last nerve.”

"Uh huh." Riku’s lashes dip as his gaze drops to Sora's throat. Sora shivers, and his smile goes a little coy. “Am I close?”

Sora thumbs his nose. “Oh, trust me, you’re getting there.” 

Riku nips back, playful, but doesn't bite down, saving the promise of teeth for more delicate skin. And, more likely, another time. Not for lack of trying (Riku’s lips are, after all, on his neck), but even Sora can admit sleep is coming for both of them, and fast. Riku’s attention is sweet, but not urgent, like he could do this for the rest of the night. For the rest of forever, maybe. Isn’t that a thought? Something to savor, like hot cocoa.

“Okay,” Sora allows, eyes fluttering contentedly shut. “You’re forgiven.”

“Already?” There’s a particular smugness to the cut of his mouth, one reminiscent of days spent taunting each other over wooden swords and relays in the sand. “You should really make me work harder for it.”

It takes some strength of will to bite down the joke he desperately wants to make. Look how far they've come—from true love’s kiss to true love’s hickey. And some other things none of the fairytales bothered mentioning in Happily Ever After, which is a shame, because they rule.

“Okay!” Sora sings. “In that case, I’ve got some _notes_.” He plants his hands against Riku’s chest, and Riku freezes in place. 

“Notes,” he says, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. He sits up, and his fingers start to curl into the fabric bunched over his thighs.

“Yeah.” Sora slides his hands up, up, up, pulling Riku down again. There’s a twitch in Riku’s shoulders that he doesn’t miss-—the instinct he visibly suppresses, the defenses he lays down. They’re Keyblade wielders. They’re used to the fight, not peace. Sora can see an open door for what it is. 

“First,” he begins, low, “is that all you got?” Riku’s eyes widen. “Second—is that _really _all you got?” He pauses for effect, fingertips now on Riku’s throat, resting featherlight right over his quickened pulse. Their hearts in tune, he reminds himself, giddy at the _thump-thump thump-thump_, a perfect complement to his own.

Riku breathes out, a shivery little exhale. It does things to Sora’s chest—squeezy, ache-y things. But he's the one who demanded not to be let off the hook so easy, so Sora keeps walking his fingers, right on into Riku's hair.

"And finally! _Ixnay_ on the _oldcay_, man." He emphasizes the point with a sharp tug even as his lips brush Riku’s cheek. "Your job is warming me up.”

Riku’s breath stutters. In one smooth roll, he goes onto his back and pulls Sora on top of him, chest-to-chest, heartbeat-to-heartbeat. He takes Sora’s face in his hands, thumbing at his temples to stroke away stray hairs and the grit of battle.

“Alright, _man_,” he says. With that, he surges up and kisses him properly, slow and deep. 

This—this is what he’s been waiting for. There’s goodnight kisses, and then there’s _goodnight kisses_. Sora’s eyes slip shut, fluttering like little wings all the way down, like his heart and stomach still do, even now. Riku kisses the same way he does everything else—if it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right. Together, they breeze past the sill.

He gives Riku’s hair another unhurried pull, luxuriating in the feeling of the short, neat strands moving through his fingers, of Riku under him, sleep-cozy and radiating heat (_so_ many uses for those muscles of his). Given the circumstances, Sora thinks he can be forgiven for feeling greedy. It’d be warmer if Riku was covering him, he wagers, so he frames Riku’s hips with his knees and uses the momentum to flip them both over. It’s worth the dull stab of pain in his back to have Riku settle over him like some kind of weighted blanket.

The arrangement seems to work for Riku, too—he makes a soft, low noise, shifting in a way that makes Sora go utterly boneless. Riku’s hands push deep into his hair, linking at the crown, and Sora sighs, sinking into the cot and the feeling. Content, he goes where Riku guides him, and doesn’t come up for air until Riku releases him with one last lingering kiss to the jaw.

“Okay," Sora breathes, appreciative. "_Whoa_.” His fingers flex where they’re winnowed in under Riku’s shirt, rucked up over his ribs. Huh. When did that happen?

“Better?” says Riku, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. He lifts his chin, cocky, and Sora pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, more charmed by the display than he should be. He’s a real piece of work, Riku. His favorite, even.

“Might need another spoonful of sugar,” he hedges, toying with the hem of his shirt. _Lots _better, but what can he say? He knows what he likes and he likes what he likes and he _really_ likes what was just happening. “You know, to make the medicine—”

Riku drops his head onto Sora’s chest, shaking with disbelieving laughter. Pleased, Sora strokes his back. 

“Less is more, you know,” Riku says, once he’s recovered. He sounds a little awed. "You’re gonna kill me one day."

Sora purses his lips. It sounds like the kinda thing people who don't have a healthy appreciation for garlic would say. Where's the zest for life? 

“That’s _stupid_,” he declares, wriggling up onto a pillow. It’s not a soapbox, but it’ll have to do. “More is more, every time. And anyway—” He sucks in a breath to start in on a diatribe about killing him right then and there, actually, if he doesn’t stop being so _weird_—and manages to put their combined weight right onto a bruise. “_Ow._”

Before he can get another word in, Riku draws them both up off the cot, handling their weight with unfair ease. 

“No,” he says, cutting Sora’s protests off before he can even start.

With his best, most beguiling look, Sora reaches for his cheek; Riku pulls his hand down with a shake of his head, unmoved, and then, of all things, he _smiles_. It transforms his face, soft and sweet and totally disarming, and before he can so much as blink, Sora finds himself tucked safely against Riku’s shoulder, a broad hand cradling the back of his head. 

A word from Riku, and magic lights up his every nerve. 

He moves from ache to ache, one hand skimming over his body, the other keeping Sora in place. His movements are confident, practically rehearsed at this point, for all the battles they’ve fought together. He seeks out the worst of the day’s damage with precision and care, reciting healing spells with the same intimacy he reserves for sweet nothings, low and hot against Sora’s ear, for him alone. It washes over Sora in waves, flushing out the hurt until he lets out a contented sigh, slumped against Riku, feeling good as new.

Satisfied, Riku eases up. _Not so fast,_ Sora thinks. He guides Riku's hands, still thrumming with power, to his own skin. He gives Riku’s left wrist its due first, because it holds onto pain as resolutely as Riku does, and then he moves on to his core, directing the brunt of Riku’s power back where it'll pull the most weight. The spell takes fast, spreading through his body like wildfire; Riku always pours more of himself into it when it's Sora he's aiming to heal. It doesn’t hurt that Sora throws his own weight behind the magic. Soft green light flares in the space between them, soothing, soft as a lullaby. Eventually that fades, too, and Sora releases him then and not a second sooner. He holds up his hand, beaming, and Riku slaps his palm to it with a roll of his eyes, not missing a beat.

There’s something in the way that light catches Riku’s eyes just then, a peculiar shine. It looks a lot like happiness—crystallized, pure. Forget counting the days, Sora decides, relishing the feeling of his palm flush to Riku’s. All he needs to do is live them. 

“Hey,” he whispers. 

“Hey,” Riku replies. 

“Love you.”

Riku ducks his head, flushing.

“I want this," Sora waves vaguely over his own neck, "to stay.”

“Don’t think it works that way, Sora.” He lifts Sora’s hair off his neck, and hums, a soft, dark note; Sora doesn’t think he imagines the disappointment he hears in it, but it could just be exhaustion. “Yeah. It’s gone.”

A minor setback, but not totally unexpected or irreparable. With the last of his energy, he pushes Riku’s jacket from his shoulders and pulls him back down to bed. Riku settles there easily, fitting his ear to Sora’s heartbeat.

“Put it back later,” Sora orders, doing his best to suppress a yawn. “More work for you.” 

The thing about healing magic is that it saps strength for all that it repairs. The result, when overdone, is an overpowering drowsiness—noon on a summer day with the windows open to the breeze. Dreamless sleep. Kissing in the afterglow. All those sweet things. 

“Yes, sir,” he shoots back, sarcastic, and Sora feels a little jolt go up his spine. Idly, he wonders if that’s becoming a thing for him. Probably. 

Sweet things, huh? Maybe he should have gone with honey. He wrinkles his nose. No—between that and Eeyore, that’s too much Pooh Bear. And anyway, he doesn’t need to prove Riku right about the whole sap thing. Even if he _is_ right. His head is big enough as it is. Like the rest of him. He shelves the thought for the morning.

“Night, babe,” Sora says, garbled. This time, the yawn sticks the landing. 

Riku’s arms tighten briefly around his middle, a little pulse of warmth. 

“Sora...” he says, and something in the way it sounds pulls Sora out of his drowse, nagging at him to glance down. He finds Riku’s gaze on him when he does, his green eyes searching. _For what?_ Sora wonders.

“Mm?” he prompts, muffled where his face is half-mushed against a pillow.

Riku’s quiet long enough that Sora’s eyes slip shut again. He works his fingers into Riku’s hair, searching with the pads of his fingers for that spot behind his right ear, the one he pretends he’s too dignified to like having scratched. 

Riku exhales. Finally, long past the point anyone else would have assumed he’d already fallen asleep, he speaks. 

“Good night,” he says, and tugs the blankets up around their shoulders, sinking them both into easy, dreamless sleep.

-

The next few days pass in much the same way: ping-ponging between worlds, finding and stopping sprung leaks as they appear, and sleeping. So much sleeping. An amount of sleeping that’s excessive even to Sora, but the work is admittedly a little rotten, and it’s getting to both of them. 

Occasionally, he finds Riku squirreled away in corners scribbling notes, his own little crystal looking more like an extremely dignified paperweight than the object of his study. Most of what he leaves around looks academic enough, but Sora did find one loose sheet with nothing on it but the word _Purple?_ underlined three times. He magnanimously carries on as if he didn’t.

More often than not, though, Riku’s staring holes into his phone, his expression dark and intense. More missions from the King, no doubt—more than enough to keep them busy. There really are a lot of Heartless, and if he’s being honest, Sora forgets all about the previous days’ weird hiccups. There’s always a bigger fish, and whatever it was fails to surface again, so he discards it as easily as he discards his nightmares once the first rosy fingers of dawn slat through windows or viewports or tent flaps or wherever it is they’re sharing pillows. Hard not to, when the mornings are always so indulgent, painting Riku head to toe in silver and gold. 

_Mirrorbright like the moon_, Sora hums to himself, competing with the morning light for the right to rake through Riku’s hair. Carbon crystals aren’t the _only _souvenir they picked up in their travels.

"G'morning," Riku croaks, one eye peeking open at the sound. The blanket slips from his shoulder like it rehearsed, and Sora’s half tempted to throw roses. Bravo, buddy. 

"Is _now_," he fires back, his eyes lingering on the curve of Riku’s neck. He hoots with easy laughter when Riku rolls right back over and plants his face into the pillow in protest. No room for bad dreams here; far too much of the bright future in this place, right by his side. 

(Not that those really happen anymore—the nightmares. Not like they used to, anyway. Riku casts a thorough net. Things still slip through, sometimes, but Sora counts himself impossibly lucky for the net at all. It could be worse. He knows worse intimately. His fears are his fears, same as his hurts, and those won't go away. He hardly expects them to, but with Riku, they're less sharp edged—something he can touch if he needs to without fear of any real pain, something he understands.

And Riku's heartbeat keeps its spot as his favorite lullaby, not to mention the cornerstone that is his presence in dreams. More often than not, he wakes up singing to pay back the favor, cycling idly through the other melodies Riku’s helped him pocket along the way. _Where the lazy daisies love the very peaceful life they lead, you can learn a lot of things from the-_—_Flower gleam and_—_glow as soft as an ember_—_)_

It _is_ a good morning, and Sora’s happily lost track of them already.

Still, after a few more days of cheerful but weary communiques about stopping one problem just to find two more, the strain begins to show on their faces. Mickey makes a note of their dark circles and strained smiles, obvious even through a gummiphone’s fussy screen. Not long after that, Riku actually falls asleep on a call with the King, and the Queen enters the frame to tell Sora she’ll take care of it.

The next day, they receive word: The King and Queen request their presence at court. It’s all very official. Sora owes Minnie a fruit tart.

It’s a short trip from their corner of space. The castle sweeps into view in no time at all, and the sight is as lovely as ever. They receive the full royal welcome, and kings and knights errant alike perform their parts perfectly, but just beyond Mickey, Sora can see Donald bouncing to get a good look and Goofy sedately offering to lift him. Sora bites his lip and looks between them and the King, a plea in his eyes. Minnie waves in a way that looks like a polite dismissal. A second later, it becomes fondly forceful. Mickey regally pretends not to notice, rascal to rascal.

Riku already briefed him: it was the King who summoned them, really, he explained as they landed, and he has a _theory_ about the pockets of resurgence and a certain castle town they all know well. It makes as much sense to Sora as anything else. In his experience, it’s not out of character for Radiant Garden to pitch the occasional fit, given the givens—but the way Riku slices it, Master Yen Sid and Mickey think some of the crystal stuff might provide some deeper insight and a more long term solution. Mostly, they’re gonna go over what they already know. Sora catches Riku’s eye, and from the steady look he gets back, he can tell Riku’s dangling the excuse again. Sora snaps it up readily. 

It’s strange. Once, he would have killed to be there in that room. He knows himself better now—the pomp and circumstance and paperwork make him itch. He just likes being trusted enough to know what’s being discussed. So, these days, unless it's absolutely necessary, he’d rather not. Like, yes, duty calls, but in this instance, so do old friends. It’s been way too long since he’s seen Donald and Goofy. 

“Catch up with you later?” he says, grateful. Riku makes a shoo-ing motion with a hand not unlike Minnie’s, shuffling to the King’s side already.It’s all there in the fondness of his send-off; he’ll get the plan of attack once it’s finalized. 

Glowing, Sora darts up to smack a kiss to his cheek, and then, he leaves him to it. Voices trail away behind him. “Aqua has concerns,” he hears Mickey saying, and Riku murmurs something in response, hushed, but by then, he’s already too far to hear, running full-tilt at his friends, who meet his flying tackle with one of their own.

It’s increasingly rare that he gets the opportunity to shoot the breeze with Donald and Goofy, so he seizes it, ducking away with them into the castle. From there, it’s a parade of familiar faces, the most excited of which is Max—his favorite kinda-nephew maybe-little-brother? but _definite_ partner-in-crime _ever._ As far as Sora's concerned, the real crime here is that no one has ever tried to mattress surf the staircases of Disney Castle. (It occurs to him he might be a bad influence, but as records go, his is pretty much beyond reproach. If you leave the Organization out of it. Nobody’s perfect.)

Catching up occupies most of the morning. Dodging the consequences takes up the rest. He posts up in the shadow of the courtyard horticulture after delivering Max back to safety and lunch and waits it out. No one actually bothers to come after him for his nonsense—the perks and pitfalls of being a hero. 

The afternoon off is nice, but even sunbathing loses its shine eventually. Frankly, he’s bored. He finds shapes in the clouds. He makes faces in his front camera—the haughty look is getting better all the time. He starts to think about texting Aqua with regards to her ‘concerns’, but as he slips his hand into his pocket for his phone, his fingers brush the little blue crystal in his pocket instead. He takes it out, holding it up to the sky. Meteors and gravity. White wax scars. Stars and their once broken hearts. He rolls each idle thought around like he rolls the crystal through his fingers. It quiets the noise around him, and the sun crosses a fair bit of its circuit across the sky without him even noticing. 

By the time he does, he realizes it’s late, and that at some point during his cloud gazing, he actually fell asleep. He sits up, pocketing the crystal he’d dozed off still clutching, rubs his eyes, and ponders what to do next. He’s just weighing the pros and cons of looking for Riku (pro column: Riku. Con column: high probability of getting sucked into a wizard conference call) when Riku finds him, emerging from the shadows between the balustrades looking filthy and somewhat triumphant.

“You didn’t tell me the meeting was gonna be_ fun_,” Sora whines, hopping to his feet. He eyes Riku’s muddy armor and torn sleeve with envy and not a little bit of interest. “What happened?” He jabs a finger at the muck. “What is that?"

"Blood of your enemies," Riku answers without inflection. “Were you _sleeping_?”

Sora shrugs. Obviously. “How could you tell?” 

Riku doesn’t answer, per se, but the corner of his mouth does quirk. 

“Guess I woke up too early for a kiss,” Sora muses, pressing his admittedly incredible luck. He taps his chin, thoughtful. “Still, hey. My knight in shining armor _is_ here." 

Riku throws him a dirty look, sluicing mud from his arms to underscore it. 

"Well, okay, not-so-shining," Sora amends. "But it's the knight-ing that counts, not the, uh." He flaps his hand at Riku, who lifts both eyebrows. Since he can do just the one, Sora guesses it's supposed to be a statement or something. _This is a two-eyebrow situation, Sora. Both eyebrows, way up._

"The shining?" Riku supplies, so dry that his mouth twists with it, like one of the sun baked palm fronds back home.

Sora snaps his fingers. "Yeah! The shining!” Riku snorts, working at the straps on his muddy practice gear. “But you do that _anyway_, Riku. I mean, you can't not, it's just—"

"Glad I pass muster," Riku interrupts, distracted by something across the courtyard. He’s tense. The whites of his eyes are just a touch too big. His hands tighten into fists at his side.

Sora knows the look. Instinct kicks in. He turns, looking over his shoulder for the source of the danger, his hands already poised to call for the Kingdom Key, but his brain catches up to his eyes and his senses quick. 

The two of them are alone. Sora frowns. Not only are they alone, they’re alone on a world where there’s a _Cornerstone _of _Light_. He should know, because he’s one third of the reason it’s still there. There _is_ no danger. There can’t be. So what gives—?

He pivots back, squinting suspiciously, but whatever it was that was bothering Riku seems to be long gone, taking the weird look on his face with it. He’s shaking out his hands, too, visibly relaxing his stance.

“Wasn’t the meeting,” he says. “Don’t worry. You didn’t miss out on anything there.” He pushes his sweaty hair back from his forehead, and Sora doesn’t miss the way he lets that hand linger, or how he puffs up a bit under Sora’s renewed attention, but he’s determined not to let Riku’s preening distract him.

“Did some practice drills with the Kingsguard after, as a favor. Evasive actions,” he clarifies. His voice warms by degrees as he looks over Sora. “I didn’t think you needed to log any more time on somersaults, or else I would have reached out. But maybe even an expert still needs practice. Since you seem to want to do things in front of the entire court.”

“Uh… huh,” Sora says, still stuck on what he’s _sure_ was fear in Riku’s eyes. “Hey, Riku, back up, what’s—”

The flicker returns. Sora glances over his shoulder again, concerned, but Riku recovers his composure quickly.

“The plan?” He stands at attention. “Mickey wants us to set up in Radiant Garden for a little while. He thinks it’s the source of some of these aftershocks—a wellspring.” Riku’s brow furrows briefly. He opens his mouth, closes it, and starts again. “He’s... had his suspicions about it for a while. If the pattern follows, we’ll see some larger Heartless there, and soon. The Restoration Committee might need the back up, and they’ve got lodging set aside for us already—would be good to get some real rest.” 

“_Great_,” Sora enthuses. “Lemme call everyone, see if they don’t wanna come, too. I bet Aqua and Terra would love to—”

Riku shakes his head. “Just the two of us,” he says, voice low. “It would give me time to look over some of Merlin’s books, too, see if I can’t add anything into my notes. But I told him I’d give him our official answer after we talked it over.”

Our. _We._ Sora lights up, everything else forgotten. The Tower is nice, and the gummiship hold is fine, it’s perfect, but a staycation cottage in the Bailey sounds like a _dream_. “Done! Sold! Yes!”

The look of relief that floods his face is endearing and honestly, a little bit confusing. What did he think Sora would say—no, go away, you stink? He definitely _doesn’t. _Sora’s seen him dab that cologne behind his ears—he knows what he’s doing, the monster. _You catch more flies with honey_, Sora reminds himself. And fine, sometimes he’s the fly.

“That’s enough talking it over, right?” he says, bouncing on his heels. He slots point B into place and just like that, he’s ready. If they leave now, they can get a headstart on work _and_— 

“Almost.” 

Oh, he has to be kidding. “Ri_ku_—”

Riku holds up a hand, then lays it deliberately—_obnoxiously_—over his heart. “So. Knight in shining armor, huh?” Closing what’s left of the distance between them, he sweeps forward into a low, teasing bow. 

Sora rolls his eyes at their imaginary audience. A tiger and its show-off stripes. The performance of the whole thing is underscored by just how much it suits him. Riku, fresh from the field of battle, disheveled but undefeated, and yeah, okay, _gallant_. It's an understatement to say it looks good on him. For a moment, it’s almost like they're kids again. Even then, Riku had seemed impossibly cool and capable: the strongest one around, his back straight and his shoulders squared, always scheming up their next adventure—the natural casting for a fearless leader. 

And, just like when they were kids, he has to open his mouth and ruin it.

"Guess that makes _you_ the fair maiden by default.” Riku cocks his head, considering. It’s really the absolute worst how he’s more than a full head taller and impossible to tip over. “Prince?” he tries, enjoying the look on Sora’s face. “Swain?"

Sora scoffs, scrubbing a hand over the back of his head. Nothing that fancy really suits. “Just ‘_guy’_ is fine.”

Riku casts a dubious look at him, but plays along._ “Sir Riku and the Fair Guy. _Guess it’s got a ring._”_

Yeah, and if Sora has anything to say about it, it'll be gold.But at the moment, he’s feeling about as fair as a kick in the teeth—more than enough to be a pedant. “Did you get bonked on the head back there?” he teases. “Lemme help you out—the blond one is _Roxas_. Y’know, the cause of every _other_ concussion you’ve had?" 

“How could I forget?” He goes all thoughtful. “Ah, right—the concussion. You sure it wasn’t Ven?”

Sora snickers, gleeful.

“Miracle I can even remember my name most days,” Riku sighs, and his lips purse just a touch; if Sora didn’t know better, he’d call it a pout. Good thing he often categorically refuses to know better.

“Lemme help you out,” he chirps at Riku, who is definitely pouting. “It’s four letters, like every other bad word-”

Riku’s lips twitch. He schools his face into neutrality with lightning speed. “Point taken, Sora.” 

Oh. That’s war. He jabs a finger at Riku’s chest. “Watch it.”

“Believe me, I am." In one smooth motion, Riku lifts Sora's hand to his mouth, pressing an unhurried kiss to his knuckles. 

A flush crawls up Sora’s neck.This is, as Hayner says, _underprecedented_. An excuse to skip a boring meeting. A workcation cottage. _Hand kisses_. He’s not sure when or how it became a competition, but matchpoint Riku, unless—

"So,” says Sora, with a pointed eye on the castle behind them, “fair maiden, huh? I want a better gig. I haven’t even seen a single unicorn.” He tugs his hand free. “Can you believe it? All this time and not even once!” He tries on that unimpressed look for size. “Guess I can't now."

Riku straightens, a bemused smile just touching his eyes. Obediently, he lets Sora go. "No?"

"Yeah.” Sora inspects his fingernails. “No thanks to you." 

It takes a moment, but Riku’s shoulders do the thing again—Sora catalogues it with _take-that_ delight.

"Takes two," Riku returns, after several long moments spent working his jaw. He sounds more than a little bit strangled, reddening to the tips of his ears as he shoots furtive glances over his shoulder at the castle, like the King and Queen might hear them and manifest in a cloud of kindly disapproval and judgement and public relations campaigns. 

What does Riku always love to say? _It’s my job to keep you on your toes_.

“Whaddya know,” Sora wonders aloud, determined to see Riku en pointe and soon. “I know I’m not the best at math, but Riku, I _think_—and stop me if I’m wrong but I count one, two—”

Riku, poor thing, just about chokes.

Mercy is a virtue, sure, but a flustered Riku is a rare risk, capable of yielding high returns, and Sora is nothing if not a high roller. He aims for three birds with one stone, wrapping his fingers up in Riku’s and yanking him into the shadows with a: “Come on, babe—let’s go!”

"Sora—" he splutters, spots of color blooming high on his cheeks. “At least let me shower—!”

“What,_” _Sora gasps, scandalized, even as he revels in the feeling of Riku’s hand in his_, “alone_?”

-

Night falls, and so does Sora, draping himself over Riku like a rumpled blanket. The main computer covers them both, running autopilot and a defensive shield, but it hardly feels necessary; the Lanes Between feel as quiet and cozy as their bedroom. The day’s clothes are folded over a chair and scattered on the floor, perfect complements. The notes sit on the overturned crate that acts as their bedside table, never far. Riku really shouldn’t leave them out like that, and Sora told him as much earlier, but they’re both easily distracted. He’s somewhat assuaged by the crystal sitting on top of them, a faintly luminescent sentinel, and definitely grateful for the forgiving light it lends. 

The knuckles of Riku’s left hand drag over knots in his back- lazy, loose circles that make Sora sag even further into him in the shelter of their cot. And then there’s the flat of his palm, radiating an intriguing expanse of heat on his ribs, the breadth of a single hand spanning so much of his side that it leaves Sora a little punchdrunk, even on the least demanding of touches. 

He has one hand tucked under the collar of Riku's white t-shirt, thumb just resting on the proud curve of his collarbone. The other is tangled up in his hair, moving to match the slow-changing angles of Riku’s kisses. He feels safe, he feels secure, he feels loved. Above all, he feels so indulgently lazy, like he could do this, and only this, forever. Like this is all they've ever done, or been. It's a silly thought. It's a _Riku _thought. Isn’t that something? 

With a contented sigh, Riku breaks away, pushing the cut of his jaw against Sora's. The faint scraping tickle—he needs a shave—makes Sora lapse into quiet fits for the sixth time that night, all keyed up. 

Riku smiles, glassy-eyed, and in the dim of their makeshift bedroom, he seems to glow once more. 

_Night light_, Sora thinks, unbidden, and there goes the seventh.He catches his breath just in time to catch Riku's eyelids drooping—got you in my web now. 

“_I love you_,” he sings, and lets his weight go dead. 

“Urgh,” Riku answers, and then wheezes something that could possibly be the same.

Warmth blooms in his chest. It’s a good end to the day; Sora draws the covers up around them, finally committing them both to bed.

“Gotta be up,” Riku protests sleepily—cold feet, evidently, and not just the ones attached to his ankles. “The navigation systems—”

Weren't a problem when we were_ necking_, Sora almost harrumphs. “You already set the coordinates and the autopilot,” he reminds Riku gently. “And the shield. _And _theautocannons. So you first." 

"My report—"

"How many pages does it take to say '_the crystal was red and now it's white and glowy_'?" They haven’t even set foot in Merlin’s library yet. He’s gonna lose Riku to a pile of_ books_. Carbon crystals are rapidly losing points. 

Homewreckers.

Riku blows out a breath, rising to an elbow.

"That’s not—they’ve been made to bleed, Sora. It's like closing a very stubborn wound. It takes a lot to heal from that kind of violence.” He runs the backs of his fingers over Sora's cheek, tracing some layline only he can see. "Sometimes they don't like to let go of the pain, especially when it’s what fueled them. You should have seen it—I can’t quite pin down what makes it possible. Not in words.“

“You’ll find them,” Sora assures him, unconcerned. “I mean, you already did it, that’s the hard part. You’ve done it tons of times, even without a rock. Now all you gotta do is explain it! You’re good at that sort of thing!”

The look he gives him is doubtful at best. “I guess."

Sora sends a stern one back. “I _know_.” 

He starts muttering to himself—something about methods of repair, fractures, restoratives. Honestly, he’s overthinking it, but Sora won’t say so out loud. Not right now—it would set him off, and that’s the last thing he wants. Well, no, he _could_ listen to Riku talk about it for hours and still be captivated. But right now, he has dark circles smudging bruises under his eyes that are overstaying their welcome, and he nearly fell asleep kissing him. Nerding is a privilege, not a right, and if Riku won’t take care of himself, then somebody’s gotta make him.

"Hey," Sora suggests. "You know what’s _really_ restorative? A good night's sleep." 

There's a look in Riku's eyes, like he's about to start splitting hairs about sleep and the concept ofsleep in relation to crystal metawhoosits. Stealing from my playbook, Sora thinks fondly. He smacks a kiss to the point of Riku’s nose. "Save the beginner’s guide to crystal whispering for _tomorrow_! You'll be better at it when you're not passing out." 

“_White and glowy_,” he gripes weakly, rubbing at his nose with his index finger. “I’m fine, Sora.”

“Did you forget we’re being thrown at a Heartless infestation?” Sora shakes his head, firm. In Radiant Garden, no less. A room with a view of the past. The irony doesn’t escape him. “‘_Wellspring_’? Come on. You said it yourself, you need the rest, babe. So you first—I’ll stay up to make sure. And if you don’t go to bed, I’m ratting you out to Terra.”

Riku's mouth falls open a little, and Sora cuts him off before he can argue it any further with a finger pressed to his mouth. _Shh_. It's already a gentle reprimand, but he softens it by winking.

“When did you start doing _that_?” Riku laments, hoarse. He’s sidestepping the point, but Sora can’t help the surge of self satisfaction at the breathless quality to his voice. He decides against answering, choosing to wink again instead.

“Death of me,” Riku mutters, and brushes a hand over Sora's brow, neatly covering Sora's eyes with his palm. 

This is his favorite loophole, because he knows Sora won't let him hide behind a blindfold (or anything at all) ever again. _Don't you like surprises_, he likes to joke, and Sora tries not to bring down the general mood of the whole area by having unresolved object permanence issues. Hard not to, when it comes to Riku. His touch, his solid presence, his heart—those should be enough to steady him. _Should_. He tugs Riku’s hand down anyway. The eyes, as they say, are the window to the soul, and since he has no particular yen to see Riku's heart divorced from his body ever again, he's more than content to settle for being on the outside looking in. Besides, he tends to miss their green fiercely, even when he's just blinking. 

“You like it.” He slips his hold and blinks one eye at him, then the other.

Riku, measured as ever, rolls both of his.

“That is the heart of the problem,” he admits, slipping his grip so that their hands are intertwined. He brings Sora's palm to his lips and drops a kiss to one of the older scars there, then nudges his way along to place one over the pounding pulse at Sora’s wrist, drawing an immediate blush up from the eager well inside of him. Sora very nearly forgets what they were talking about, a little mortified to realize that all of him is the same, right on down to the veins. Even his stupid blood chases after Riku. His heart always did know these things first, even before his head.

"Problem, schmoblem, you’re _distracting_ me!" Sora cries, disappointed with himself for being so easy for something as simple as a kiss on the hand. _Again._ "Go to _bed_, Riku. I’ll watch over you. I owe you!"

"Sora," he says. It sounds so serious. It sounds like it’s for him only. Sora wants to hear him say it again (_and again and again and_—). "You know you don’t owe me anything."

"Figure of speech!" This again; Sora squints at an invisible peanut gallery. "Is that the word for it?"

Riku's lips curl upward in a pantomime of his old arrogance. "No, Sora, it's not."

"You know what I'm trying to say." Sora waves a hand like he's shoving Riku's self-satisfied little smirk away—_go on, get_. "Be-_sides_, I know I don’t. You don’t either.” Riku’s eyebrows climb, and Sora ignores them. “I kinda figure nobody really does, but everybody does?” He sits up a little, stretches, and gathers himself in time with his thoughts. “I mean, it's a little sad to think people are only nice because they think it'll pay off later—but I sure _like_ doing nice things, especially for you." 

Sora tries not to let his self-satisfaction leak out everywhere; judging by the look on Riku's face, he won this round. Just to be sure, he brings out the big guns. No harm in being thorough. And it's not really using his powers for evil, he rationalizes—not when Riku attempted to weaponize hand-kisses twice in one day, which is clearly irredeemable monster behavior, and thus makes him an acceptable target. 

He pushes the tip of Riku’s nose down with his finger. "It makes me happy, Riku." 

Riku's mouth falls open. In short order, the stunned gape becomes a yawn. He struggles for a moment, but concedes, and Sora briefly enjoys the thrill of being downright diabolical. 

“Okay,” he breathes, nodding slowly. “You win.” His smile is thin but grateful. “Go easy on me next time, will you?"

In his _dreams_. "Get real, babe," Sora snipes, pushing him down against the pillows. Riku's shoulders still feel battle-stiff under his hands; he brushes a sly healing spell against them and slowly but surely the tension melts away. 

“Good night, Sora.”

"Mm. Good night, Riku. See you when I’m under." 

He nods again, eyes huge, and Sora gets no more fight from him. Five minutes later, he’s asleep in his arms, his face hidden in Sora's collar like it's the safest place for him to be. 

It’s nice, being like this. The two of them together, sure, but _this_ specifically—Riku in his arms, flush to his heartbeat, fit against his skin, close as can be. They both breathe easy like this. He glances at the floor, the chair, their excuse for a bedside table. After a moment, he digs his own little crystal out of his pocket and plants it next to the one already at rest beside them—never lonely. Riku’s mess and his, together. His heart twists. Adjusting carefully, so as not to wake him, Sora folds him in even closer, wishing he could shelter him all in his heart and give him the same peace he feels in his. It’s sappy, sure, but he leans into the sentimentality—just like Riku taught him. 

Because that’s the thing—life before he could be with Riku like this is already a distant memory. And life after, if there is one, well—he gnaws his lip at the thought, a little anxious, but decides any hypothetical tomorrow hasn’t happened yet, so it’s not worth worrying about twice. Besides, no matter what the future has in store, he got to be a part of this. Of them. He’s better for it, forever. For having been touched by his light. Just like that silly crystal.

Plopping a kiss to the top of Riku’s head, right to the crown, he wriggles in for bed, rounding down all the numbers to this one blessing.

-

Later, of course, is bound to happen eventually. Rude as it is, it doesn’t even have the decency to give them a full day to settle in before it rears its inevitable head. Sunset brings darkness, as always—but this is much more of it than either of them anticipated, even with the recent surge.

“So much for a staycation,” Sora gripes. His sea salt ice cream melts by his feet, abandoned, its ebullient blue a stark contrast to the oil slick darkness of the wave of living shadows.

Riku drops his weight, ready to attack; in his peripheral vision, Sora can see both Braveheart and his eyes blazing. Sora glances at Riku in time to see his lip curl, and his heart lurches despite his best efforts. It’s been a while since Sora’s seen him angry at a Heartless. Usually all the creatures provoke in him is his focus, and his pity.

“On your guard,” he grits out. His free hand fists.

“No need,” Sora fires back, scanning the enemy lines, aiming to reassure them both. “I’ve got you.”

Behind them, the sickly gray smudge of Radiant Garden’s empty reservoir spills over the landscape, its gash more open wound than scar. The water hasn't returned just yet, though there are plans to see it done. Sora chews on the inside of his cheek, reminded of something Riku said—was this world holding onto its hurt, too? Was that what kept it going, through the fall? Even now—the rage, the pain? Anger is as good a motivator as hope—sometimes they work hand in hand—but the thought that it could stay angry, living only on its hurt forever, is impossibly sad. He wishes they hadn’t left those silly crystals behind in the cottage this morning—they’d be quite the rabbit’s foot right about now.

Before them, the Heartless swarm. They move in throngs, thick bands twisting over and around each other. It’s not as bad as it was in the Keyblade Graveyard, or even during the battle of a thousand that happened not too far from this very spot, years ago now, but still—the ambush is impressive. 

”Gotta keep ‘em from getting too close to the borough,” Riku murmurs, the line of his body radiating heat inches from where he’s moved to cover Sora’s side. A burst of dark fire keeps an eager straggler from reaching them, and forces the ones already banded together closer. 

“_Nice_,” Sora cheers, taking a moment to admire the dying flames, their unique hue. That’s Riku. Doesn’t do anything by halves.

“Focus,” Riku snaps. “If we can corral them...” 

Sora nods once, pressing his lips together as he scans the field. Lead them away from hearts to take, right. He’s not typically one for strategy, preferring to jump in where the crush needs thinning, lightening the load for everyone else, but he trusts Riku to steer him in the smartest version of the right direction. Dropping his stance on a slow breath, he waits for Riku’s signal.

Riku mirrors him, settling into a crouch, setting himself up for a running start. His weight shifts forward, balanced on the balls of his feet, tension pulling—but the rubber band hasn’t snapped yet. Sora looks from him to the Heartless soldiers.

“Watch out for the ones in the air,” he whispers, and Riku cuts him a glance—_got it, _but not in so many words. They don’t need them.

"I’ll get them first, when I go around.” His shoulder moves just barely to the left, not enough to telegraph his movement to the swarm before them, but Sora knows what to look out for.

“On your mark,” Sora jokes. “Get set—”

“There's an opening." Riku’s voice is steely. Sharp, like the cut of his jaw as he indicates their target with a jerk of his head. "There."

He sees it, and knows exactly what Riku intends to do with the perfectly cleared arena. No better place to lure the Heartless in. If they do it right, it’ll put them directly into the crosshairs of the town’s own defense system, too. He could kiss him. He plans to, later.

“Alright,” Sora says, brushing an encouraging touch to Riku’s shoulder as he ducks by him, barking out his own orders as he goes. “Take the left, babe, I’ll go around—”

He breaks cover, but after a heartstopping moment, he realizes he doesn’t hear footfalls going in the opposite direction. A nasty feeling crawls up his throat—he turns, and sees Riku standing where he left him, rigid, rooted to the spot. It’s only a split second’s blip—he shakes his head, focus recovered, but not soon enough to put himself out of harm’s way. A burst of magic whizzes only an inch past his left ear, ruffling his hair. It takes a few singed strands with it. 

Sora’s stomach and all the little fluttering wings inside of it sink. His heart beats against his throat, desperate with fear. 

“_Riku_!” he cries. He's aimed a concussive blast at the Heartless responsible before he even realizes what he’s doing. It dissipates in a burst of light, and Riku seems to regain control of his limbs after that, heading off like a shot to round the left flank; Sora breathes a sigh of relief, though his hands still shake and his heart still pounds its worry, even as they meet in the middle and scramble to beat back the waves, even as the final Heartless finally falls, even as they cross the threshold into safety what feels like hours later, victorious, but completely and utterly humbled.

-

"So!” Sora begins, bright. He pivots just in time to watch Riku close the door behind him. He leaves the lights off, and in the spirit of compromise, Sora doesn’t argue. “_That_ didn't go well." 

Riku grunts, scuffing a hand through his hair. Sora could take that as agreement, but really, he has no idea how to even begin to interpret the gesture. It’s awfully agitated. He takes note of some fried, cut-off strands as they jerk through Riku’s fingers, an unnecessary and unsettling reminder of the evening’s swift turn.

"You wanna tell me what happened back there?" he tries, aiming for reassuring.

“No.”

Evidently it falls short.

“_Riku_,” Sora insists.

Riku’s expression darkens, and with a sharp inhale, he starts to pace the cottage floor. 

So much for the sympathetic and understanding angle. 

It can’t even rightfully _be_ called pacing, Sora thinks, watching his progress. Three steps in one direction, cross arms, stare into the middle distance for a few minutes, rinse and repeat. How Riku isn’t exhausted by it, Sora has no clue. Five minutes of it is enough to set him on edge. Maybe only two. He’s never been a good judge of time, and likewise no one’s ever accused him of being a patient person. 

Despite the silent judgement, Riku carries on, and Sora stalks over to their very cute handmade kitchen table, still laden with the remains of the morning’s welcoming pastries and Riku’s report, just to give himself something to do that isn’t _waiting_. The matching chairs and cushioned gingham check pillows are aggressively cheerful in the gloom, and while he’d cooed over them earlier (_“Look! It’s destiny!”_), they do nothing for his nerves now. He sits on his hands to keep himself from up and combusting with everything he's barricading behind his teeth. 

He wriggles in place, hauling in deep, meditative breaths like everyone’s always telling him to, and when he opens his eyes, surprise surprise, the pacing hasn’t stopped. If anything, Riku’s looping circuits have expanded, taking up the whole of the room now. He sweeps his rambling paths past the fireplace, the papers spread out on the coffee table, their luggage still stowed by the rumpled bed. The extended rhythm of his march is a marked improvement on his nerves, but Sora can’t help a frown at the sight of it all around him, the clear as day evidence of how they were so much more in sync just this morning. Now everything’s all out of key. What happened?

Taking the continued silence as tacit permission to keep on needling, he wriggles a hand out from under his thigh and gestures broadly across the cottage floor. 

“Think you put a big enough hole in it yet?” he asks the air in Riku’s wake. “It’s almost like you don’t want our deposit back.” Not that they paid a deposit, or anything at all, but still. 

Riku ignores him, as expected, and Sora heaves a sigh, his patience falling out of him like flour through a sieve.

“Don’t see how you can even tell where you’re going,” he mutters, a little twisted up by the heavy feeling of the darkness in the room. It’s nothing to be afraid of, he knows, but it does feel a little bit like there’s an impending drop in atmospheric pressure, a storm brewing on the horizon. Sora half expects a sizzling streak of lightning to split the air, followed by the low, booming roll of thunder. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s seen Riku that way—he cuts that thought off with passion. It’s not fair, and it’s not what he really feels.

Across the room, Riku finally slows, coming to rest by the hearth.

“Riku...?” Sora tries again, gentler now. 

Riku shakes his head. As if in a trance, he conjures a little flame to sit in the palm of his hand. The fire is dark, blue and purple and a little frightening in its intensity. But seeing as it’s the closest thing to a response he’s gotten in the past five minutes, Sora forces himself to take it as some small sign of progress. That is, until it grows into a pillar of flame, and grinds Riku to a halt entirely. 

If there’s anything worse than the pacing, it’s _this_—the stillness, eerie and unnatural. Riku’s steady, sure, but he’s not a _statue_, unyielding and out of reach. And yet, there he stands, transfixed, his eyes trained on the dark light in his palms. He stares and stares and stares, like he’s forgotten there’s anything or anyone else in the room. In the interest of fairness, Sora gives it a shot, tries to see what he sees in it, too. Mostly he just registers harsh blue-purple light, guttering and spitting its protest at the curtained, heavily shadowed room. 

_You know what, pal? _he thinks to himself. _Same_.

Pinching the root of his nose, Sora tries diplomacy one more time. "Can we return this darkness to a little light? I'm getting a headache over here, babe."

Riku jolts like a scared animal and the fire—the fire goes wide, arcing over to the table, where it lands on the papers and their weights scattered over its surface. Sora scoots backwards hard, nearly toppling out of his chair, and then he realizes- the notes. They both watch for a moment, unmoving, as Riku’s hard work goes up in flames. 

_Kyber,_ Sora thinks mournfully, watching the fire catch like a tune. That was it—kyber. Well, there’s the lightning. He cuts glance to Riku, worried. How long before the thunder? 

Riku's brow pinches, but he doesn’t move. The dark light reflects in his still, still eyes.

Sora rises, wary, and assesses the damage. At least the crystals aren’t melting, but the situation on the table is taking twice-baked croissants a little too literally, and the notes—Sora grimaces—the notes are beyond saving. But he likes the cottage's chances, given they're still inside of it, so he douses the fire with a short, effective burst of water. Probably not what Tia Dalma intended for him to do with all the power of the seas, but needs must. He goes for the lightswitch next. It’s for the best that there’s no more fire today, even if a mug of cocoa, the fireplace, and a quilt had been a half formed hope for the evening... 

“Okay,” he says, turning on his heel, leading with a note of cheer he doesn’t actually feel. He power walks past the ash and flying pieces of parchment borne aloft on the waves of fading heat to Riku. “That’s definitely one way to do it. I think mine’s a little safer, though.” 

Riku is right where he left him, staring blankly at the sodden mess, simultaneously there and a hundred miles away. Sora winces; so much for lightening the mood. He hustles over, guiding Riku into the chair he was just occupying, and Riku allows himself to be moved mechanically, accepting the throw blanket that Sora drapes over his shoulders without protest.He leaves the wreckage where it is. For now. No point in drawing Riku’s attention back to it. Or his own. Sora’s mouth purses. If he were taking bets, the table’s not the first thing he thought they’d be replacing. Ah, well. 

He reaches out, sketching a tentative touch over the folds of the blanket.

“Hey… you okay, Riku?” 

Riku slumps then, like his strings have been cut, and Sora steps up to drape himself over his shoulder, dutifully making sympathetic noises and smoothing his hair where it was burned.

“I just.” He pulls the blanket tighter, fisting it in a wadded up bundle at his collar. The words come out stiff as his shoulders, which is frankly impressive. “I don’t even know.”

“Rough day,” Sora murmurs, swaying behind him in a one-sided slow dance. 

Riku laughs, a bitten off, bitter sounding thing. “I’ve had worse. I can do it again.”

“Not the point,” Sora says firmly. He leans his cheek on Riku’s shoulder, and Riku tips his head sideways, bringing their foreheads together. “It’s the day you’re having now. Should’ve asked first—is there anything I can do?”

“Reverse time? Fix _this_?” The dark blue flame starts again, just a candle light in his palm, and then it dies. He straightens, putting distance between them again. “Tell me to take your advice and mine?” 

Sora frowns, an inch away from planting his hands on his hips. It was a lot of work to lose, sure, but seriously, what is _with_ the fixation on theory when he’s already had the practice? He nearly says so, but decides against it. After all, this is Riku they're talking about. Like he said, he already has most of the work up there in his big brain. The problem will just be the motivation to start again after the setback, but Riku bounces back better than the rest of them. Always has. 

Deciding he’s had a long enough day already, Sora bows at the waist, dropping a kiss to Riku’s forehead in lieu of a response; his eyes close, weary. 

“So that sucked,” Sora declares, and Riku snorts half-heartedly, already pulled to some place far, far away again. It stings a bit, but he gets it. He’s known Riku long enough to understand these moods, the whens and the whys and the what nows of their happening. It’s just been a little while—a couple months, really. Bullheaded he may be, but he’s still capable of catching a clue. Now and again, anyway. 

Mind made up, he clears his throat. “I’m here for you, but if that means leaving you alone for a while, I can do that. Someone’s gotta clue Leon and the others in on what happened, and I can make that sooner rather than later…?”

Roused from his stupor, Riku shakes his head, but Sora silences him with a wave as he moves to gather up his stuff. “I’ll grab ice cream on the way back, if you want, ours is probably part of the cobblestone now. I think Scrooge’s shop is still open this late—I’ll be sure to take my time coming back, okay? Text me and I’ll—"

“I don’t want—” Riku starts to argue, shrugging the blanket free. “No, Sora, wait—”

“Anything _but_ sea salt, right?”

“Sora, I wasn’t—”

He slips a jacket on—Riku’s. Of course. The familiar scent wraps around him like a hug, and he burrows into the bulk of it, letting that speak for him when he can’t quite speak for himself yet. “Don’t worry about it, Riku, _seriously_!”

“No.” Riku frowns. “This isn’t what I—”

“Hey,” he cuts in, grinning, already walking backwards to the door. “It’s _really_ okay! Let me do this for you, babe.” 

“_Stop_!” Riku snaps, lurching forward and jerking him back by the nearest belt loop before he can so much as lift another foot.

The volume, the sheer _vehemence_ of it—it nearly gives Sora his second heart attack of the day. He stares down at Riku’s hands, where his knuckles have gone white, then back up at Riku, bewildered. There’s an air about him, like a man going to his execution. A certain contained mania there in the planes of his face; fearlessness in the face of guaranteed disaster. '_Eh, what the hell_'—he’s not sure whether he should feel proud or terrified to see that little bit of himself all over Riku.

“Okay,” Riku breathes, chest heaving, more than a little wild-eyed. “Okay. What’s all _this_—” he waves sharply at Sora—“about?”

Sora glances down the length of his body. The coat’s a little big, sure, but he finds nothing that could or should be gestured at so judgmentally. Hesitant, he says: "What’s _what _about?”

Riku scowls, then releases him. Not for long, though. Crooking the first two fingers of his left hand in the same loop, he holds Sora in place. With his right, he digs in his pocket, procuring his phone, thumbing furiously at the display until he finds what he’s looking for.

A moment later, the screen flashes blue-white; Sora squints, catching sight of what is now a weeks-old message. _hey babe!!!_ leaps off the screen and into his face with all the energy of its unnecessary exclamation points. So maybe he's a little prone to excess when he's excited. It's fine. He catches something else about truffle oil(—_not_ a cooking oil, he’d learned that the hard way—sometimes the phantom hairs that Little Chef yanked out still call out to him)— He shudders and glances back over to Riku, who meets his gaze evenly, if somewhat desperately. 

Mystified as to the reason for that look, he lets his eyes wander. They find a little lock symbol in the top left corner of the box, bold and black. Sora squints harder. Riku saved the message. That's… huh. He’s sure his face does something outrageous.

“Aha,” he says, hoping he sounds more in the know than he feels. “That.” He scratches idly at the back of his neck, unsure what to make of the last two minutes. Of the last entire day, if he's being honest.

“Yeah.” Riku pulls back, clutching his phone so hard his knuckles blanch. A little rectangle of light glows under his chin—grave lighting for grave pronouncements. Scary stories in the dark. “That.” He clears his throat, gesturing between them again. “This.”

The gesture is unmistakable, but he wants to give Riku the benefit of the doubt anyway. 

“...us?” he translates, his voice barely more than a squeak. Hurt creeps in despite his best efforts to contain it; he can’t help it. He thought—he was so _sure_—

“What—no!” Riku yelps, taken aback. “_No_, not _that_!”

Sora's brow furrows. "Then…?"

Riku jabs a finger at the screen. His nail clicks hard and plastic right over the word _'babe_'.

Sora _ahhs_, not so much putting the pieces together as discovering there are pieces at all. The panic ebbs away, leaving him with relief and an odd kind of understanding. This, he can handle. The past month of weirdness re-arranges itself into a picture that makes some kind of sense. (If he doesn’t think about it too hard. Like, just this morning, he’d gasped it out unthinking as they did their best to ruin the bed's hospital corners, and was rewarded for it with nothing short of heat and that look in Riku's eyes: intense, dark, and longing—)

Riku, insisting he had a name. Riku, staring furiously at his phone. Riku, freezing on the battlefield. It all snaps into place.

"You want me to stop," he guesses, gnawing on his lower lip.

“Yes," Riku says immediately, and then, without missing a beat, "no.” He winces. “Yes? I mean. I don’t... I don’t _know_.”

Sora takes that in, digesting it carefully. He threads his fingers through Riku’s, dislodging them from his waistband in the process, and speaks, gently as he can. 

“I think,” he says, with a patient tilt of his head, “that it’s _my_ turn to ask you what this is all about.” 

Riku’s expression shutters, then closes off entirely.

Slowly, groaning forward like an old ship leaving harbor, he buries his head in Sora’s bicep. One moment passes, then another. He doesn’t say anything, but he does huff miserably, a little gust like the last breath of a seaside squall. It goes, and the tension, for the most part, leaves with it.

“Aw, _Riku_.”

“Sora,” he says, weary.

Somehow he manages to fill that one word with so many things—right now, it’s exasperation, mostly. Sora is long past petty jealousies, knows he’s got his own talents to be proud of, but he can’t help being envious of this one in particular. He squeezes Riku's shoulder with one hand and runs his thumb over Riku’s pulse with the other, thoughtful. It seems an awfully handy skill. Especially right about now.

Taking care to find that spot behind his ear, Sora cradles Riku’s head in the crook of his arm. Charming as ever that this is his chosen hiding place. _Especially when it’s me he’s hiding from_, Sora thinks, not without a little bit of mischief.

“Let it out, _babe_,” he teases, scratching lightly at his scalp to dull the sting of the tease. “I’m here for you!”

Riku groans loudly, digging his nose further into his flank. 

He counts: five, four, three, two—Riku pulls away, blinking up at him, his green eyes bright and uncertain. _Hello, _Sora thinks.There_ you are. _“If you don’t like it…” He smooths his open palm over Riku's hair. Hopefully he can read the offered hand in it.

“No, I do. Like it.” Riku winces again, and his fingers tighten around Sora’s lapels. “I like it.”

“You didn’t have to play along for my sake,” Sora chides, clicking his tongue. “I was just trying something.”

Riku’s jaw works. The silence stretches and stretches, and just when Sora thinks he can’t bear waiting him out any longer, he speaks. His words, already hushed, are swallowed up by the floor. It isn’t right, the lack of fight. 

“That’s…. “ He sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair. “That’s kind of it, Sora.”

Sora tips his head to one side. “What? What’s ‘_it’_?”

Of all the times to go silent again. He learned it from the King, Sora decides. Avoiding direct answers is exactly as useful as you’d assume when it comes to trying to fix a problem. 

“Come _on_, Riku!” He tugs the low collar of his shirt, like he can drag the answers out of him. If only. Maybe they need to be in the Realm of Darkness for this conversation—he’s always been forthcoming there, if nowhere else. “Spit it out already. You know you can tell me anything!”

His head jerks, as if in agreement, but then Riku plucks Sora’s hands away and sets them down like a napkin. He doesn’t like how that feels, how his concern is so easily discarded, but he gives Riku space to find the words.

“I just… I don’t want to get used to it,” he confesses at last, voice small, shoulders hunched. “To this.”

Sora breathes in sharply.

Riku loves to be cryptic and indecipherable, for all that he hates other people doing it to him. It was like that the day he’d finally confessed. (“_Remember that day on the beach? With the stranger? You asked me what we talked about, and I said it was a secret? It... was more like a promise-_—_that I’d protect what matters_.”) And while Sora typically lacks the patience for riddles, he’s gotten pretty okay at figuring Riku’s out. (_“What matters? ...me?”)_

But _this_—this is way out of his depth. 

"_Huh_?"

"We have _routines_," Riku says, weighed down with it, like he's sharing a portent of doom. The stars are winking out. There’s another impending Keyblade War. There’s a Finalmost World, actually. Sorry.

Sora summons up a confused smile, mostly for Riku's benefit, because he’s not making any sense. 

"Uh, _yeah_...?" Some of them are Riku's. They're nice!

But Riku only stares at him with mounting desperation. "You wear my clothes,” he says, plucking at Sora’s sleeve. “You make me coffee, and you listen to me, and you want to_ be_ listening to me. You tease me until I feel like I’m about to be on fire and then you actually let me burn.

“And you sing in the morning. I don't think you even realize you're doing it." His gaze wanders to the still smoking scorch mark on the table. Sounding nothing short of shell-shocked and looking much the same, he fists his hands. "There's. There's no better—" He swallows tightly and his volume trails off to near nothing. "I never wanna wake up to anything else ever again._"_

“I feel like I’m missing something here,” Sora says, about as diplomatic as he can manage. Because the way he sees it, those are all good things. They should be on the same exact page. They are! So what gives?

“I…” Riku wets his lips, refocuses, then starts over, balling the fabric bunched at his knees into twin fists. “I count the days. I can’t believe I have this—that you’re here, that you want to be with me. Every moment, I think it's the last. I keep waiting for you to wake up one day and realize you’ve made a huge mistake.”

“_Riku_,” Sora gasps, his whole body going rigid. 

He shrugs once, jerky. “Riku,“ he echoes, a reprise to Sora’s appeal, but this time it’s in a minor key. “Exactly. That’s what you’ve always called me.” Something like a snarl rips loose from his throat, and he rolls his eyes at himself with a pronounced viciousness. The blaze is there in his eyes again—Sora recognizes it from the battlefield. “Of course you would, it’s my _name_—” 

“Whoa, whoa, _hey_—” 

“So I can go back to that easy,” he interrupts, picking away at the creases he just put into his pants, the pad of his thumb harsh on the rumpled twill. “One less thing for me to miss when you realize this isn't what you want, that someone like _me_—”

“_Riku_,” Sora repeats. He figures he might be pulling off the exasperated thing now; the trick is loving someone who’s absolutely ridiculous. “You've gotta be _kidding_ me. _That’s_ why you nearly got your head taken off by one of the small fry?” One silly word against all that they are?

Riku stiffens. “That too—the Heartless—that’s me. All of it. The past few months, everything we've been dealing with—_I'm_ the wellspring. The whole—” He gestures out the window, presumably to the site of their battle and the empty reservoir beyond. “I’m tied to this place and it’s tied to me, and I’m—”

"Is that what Yen Sid and the King told you?" Sora demands, incredulous.

He looks away, and Sora understands what he isn’t saying loud and clear. No, this has Riku written all over it. At least it’s this and not _‘I didn’t want you to find me’ _again. Or… maybe they are the same thing, when you break it down.

“They didn’t send us here at all, did they,” Sora says slowly. “They didn’t think any of it was out of the ordinary. They tried to talk you out of it. Aqua, too—she knew.” He remembers the King mentioning her name, her concerns. “Or she suspected. _Terra _would have seen it right away—”

Riku looks away, ashamed.

“Okay.” Sora breathes out, one long, steady whoosh, and wills himself not to cuff the back of Riku's overdramatic head. He—he’s so _smart_, but also, he’s so _stupid_. “Okay. First off, Heartless swarms do not gather and terrorize the worlds because you’re having an off day. Month. Whatever. Believe it or not, not everything bad that ever happens or will ever happen is_ your fault.”_ Riku opens his mouth and Sora holds up a hand before he can so much as utter a single syllable._ “You _didn’t bring this world to ruin. Maleficent was here long before you ever were, and there was plenty happening before that, so don't you start!"

“Sora,” Riku says, placating. 

The note of resigned and vaguely condescending patience in his voice is enough to make him vibrate out of his skin with frustration. This is a part of his history, too, and he won't have it—_Rikusplained_—back to him! There are things Riku _is_ at fault for, and he’s taken on the work of making amends for them with steadfastness, if not always perfect grace. The rest—it’s vanity, is what it is, and self-indulgence, too. Holding a person’s mistakes over their head for the rest of forever is exhausting work, and he is _not_ cut out for it. He plans to have his hands full with other things. Like Riku’s.

“Nope,” he announces, nose in the air, “sorry! Pity party’s over, pack it up!”

“Sora—” Riku makes an angry, bitten off noise, but Sora doesn’t back down.

“Last call,” he says, trying his hardest not to fume. The thought that Riku was quietly suffering the whole time he thought they were both happy-—that he let Sora believe it and would let him _keep on_ believing it, _forever, _smiling for Sora even as he suffered—

Months by his side, in his arms, and in his heart, after years of waiting for it— incandescent and overjoyed and totally _ignoran_t of the fact Riku was thinking the floor would cave in at any second. Riku’s proud shoulders curl in on themselves even now, like he’s bracing for the impact, and all of Sora’s anger snuffs out like it's been doused with water, too. 

He'd do the same, wouldn't he? Glass houses. 

“Seriously,” he says, softer, sober now, bringing Riku's scarred knuckles to his lips for the gentlest of reprimands. A matched set, the pair of them, in all the best ways. All the worst, too. “This _whole time,_ and you didn’t _tell _me?” 

Riku wilts. "I thought I could handle it. If I just—made good, every day, then one day something would _stick_, and I could prove it to myself once and for all—" He cuts another glance at the table, where the ashes of his pet project still smolder. 

It takes everything in him not to curse. Of course. The crystal. The fixation. The obsession, really. _Made good._ The knee-jerk rigidity, the caginess, the distance. The affection and the longing, too. The scars on his side and the healing spells and the excuses and the good nights and the good mornings, all the things he's done and all the things he'll keep on doing. Even after everything, he thinks he’s not good _enough,_ that a word like ‘_deserve’ _can factor into the way Sora feels about him. Looking back at it now, the tension between fear and hope in every single word and every single touch is so, so obvious.

“Listen to me, Riku,” he says, fierce. “You’ve got _nothing_ to prove.” He brings their foreheads together, holding Riku close. No room for any more doubt to wriggle in, not if he has anything to say about it. “Not to _me_, not to _anyone_, and especially not to _you_. Got that?"

Silence follows the declaration; it’s not exactly an easy thing to hear, he knows. Faith has a way of bowling you over. It’s harder still to believe, but Riku’s eyes are wide, and a little wet, so maybe he’s getting somewhere, at least.

“It's not that simple,” Riku argues, though he smiles at Sora weakly, like he appreciates it anyway.

"Why not?"

"Because.” His mouth twists. _Great point_, Sora thinks about saying, but he holds his peace, and Riku speaks his, i before e. 

“I _made_ it this way,” he says, like _don’t you see_? _Why can’t you see?_ “A long time ago. And I can’t change it now, but I—” He sets his jaw. “All I can do is just keep trying. Every day.” 

So there isn’t a single day that passes that Riku doesn’t count as part of a campaign, a war against himself. Sora wants to rail and rage. _How can you think that? How can you go on every single day of your life doubting that you’re a good person, or what's in your heart?_

_“Riku_.” Sora tugs on a lock of his shorn hair, plaintive. “You’ve been up there in your own head too long. How about cutting yourself some slack? You’ve done so much already. You’ve done enough.”

“Maybe,” he hedges.

“Maybe?” Sora repeats, incredulous.

“Maybe,” he says, his lips thinned. He’s apparently happy to leave it at that.

Sora breathes out and backs up, giving himself space to think. There has to be a way to get through to him. _Giving up already _floats up to the tip of his tongue, a familiar refrain. But why does it always have to be a competition, a storm, a war? Why is it always a _test_—

He inhales sharply, his hands drop to Riku’s shoulders like a mantle, and suddenly, he understands. He doesn’t like it, but he understands.

“Alright,” he says slowly. “You know what? I think I get it, Riku.”

Riku eyes him warily, his expression riding the line of contrition and doubt. “You do?” 

“Sure.” He straightens his collar, then straightens it again, just to have something to do with his hands that isn’t tearing his own hair out. “This is just like the Mark of Mastery.” 

“...it is?”

Sora levels him with the flattest, driest look he has in his arsenal—the one he borrowed from Riku. “Yeah. Gimme a second. I’m trying to figure out some kind of trial. It’s gotta be hard enough, otherwise you’ll pretend it doesn’t count, and we’ll be back at square one.”

His eyes go round, his jaw slack and indignant. Good—maybe he's finally realized how ludicrous the whole charade sounds from the outside. Intensely flattering to know Riku treats their relationship with the same respect he treats stewardship of the Light, capital letter and all, but also—exhausting.

“Or maybe you wanna play hide and seek instead?” Sora says, deliberately light, even as he aims low. “I know I’m getting pretty good at it.”

It lands; Riku stiffens, but recovers fast.

“Yeah, actually,” he mutters, giving back as good as he gets. “Doesn’t sound like a bad idea, now that you mention it. Don’t think I’ll even need a headstart—”

Sora groans. “Honestly, Riku.” He shifts, moving to smooth the crease in his forehead. Good thing he thinks it’s cute. He's about to put a permanent one there in T-minus one second. “Marrying you is gonna be _ridiculous.”_

Riku’s brows go from looming over his eyes like thunderclouds to making a leaping bid for his hairline in no time flat. 

“_Marrying_—” he squawks, then coughs roughly as, presumably, he chokes on his own spit. Sora claps him gamely on the back, and the tips of his ears go pink. 

“I mean, it’s sort of a done deal,” Sora points out, the touch of smugness making it philosophical. He takes his cue from the trajectory of Riku's brows and pushes his fingers into Riku's hair. Riku looks at him like he’s a compass that won’t stop spinning, and Sora doesn’t understand. Dying for each other, criss-crossing universes, sharing dreams- what’s a signed piece of paper and a witness, really? But Riku does get so hung up on formalities, like old men in unnecessarily long hats telling him he’s a certified hero because he passed an exam even after he’s already saved the world—_universe_—twice over.

Riku’s mouth opens, the corners of it weighed down with impending semantics, but after a withering look from Sora, it snaps shut with a short, sharp click of his teeth.

“_Eventually,” _he clarifies, scratching Riku’s scalp lightly_._ “We’re still too young. I don’t care how Ariel or Snow White did it. But if one silly word is responsible for _this_ then I don’t even wanna think about ‘_husband_’. I’m gonna need _years_ to mentally prepare.” A thought occurs, and he scowls, wrinkling the fabric he just tidied with the sheer force of his grip. “If you disappear on the morning of our wedding to go on some—_absolution quest_—so _help_ me, Riku—”

“...we can start with babe,” Riku says, pale with something that looks suspiciously like guilt. 

**__**_You are the light of my life_, Sora thinks, exasperated. _I want to kick you in the shins._ “We can _start_ with you telling me the truth. None of this _‘who are you trying to fool’_—talk to me, you goof.”

Riku’s eyes fall shut. Slowly, solemnly, he nods.

So there it is. He's finally dived off the cliff, missed the rocks he imagined in his head on the way down. Now all that's left is deciding to surface, and _breathe_. Sora drops a kiss to his forehead, buying them both a little more time. The faint smell of smoke still lingers in the air, but the worst is over. 

Riku sucks in a breath, holds it. Sora can almost hear him counting. He waits, and he doesn’t press, but he won’t let Riku drown, either, now that he gets it. They’ve got the night, and the sunrise after. He’s got as long as Riku needs.

“I don’t want to be alone,” Riku starts, his voice small. “Not really. I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime.”

Sora hums, just loud enough to let Riku know he’s listening, that he’ll keep listening, as long as he has to, and no louder. There’s still more to say, Sora knows. Honesty’s a light. It shines out of Riku, and the shadows in the room retreat.

“I’ll let you know if that’s what I need,” he swears, hoarse. “If… if I need something—I’ll tell you.” 

“Okay.”

Riku finally lets that breath loose, and Sora can hear him letting go of something else with it, something cracked and frayed and heavy—a broken old raft, his only hope on the open sea. Sora wraps him up in his arms right away, unwilling to let Riku feel the water rise over his head again, not even for a second. He’ll be a boat. He’ll be whatever.

“Sorry,” Riku says. “I was scared.”

“I got scared too,” Sora answers, shrugging. As far as he’s concerned, Riku’s battles are his battles. Riku’s fears are his fears, too. But Riku’s worst enemy, no. He can’t be—he’d die for him. No—he’d die for any one of his friends. He’d _live_ for Riku. “I love you.” Under his touch, Riku’s shoulders tense, then relax. An open door.

“I know,” he whispers.

“I'm not holding it against you. You do know that, right?”

"Holding what?” Riku sounds wrung out, like he can't handle any more revelations or declarations or even love, not today. (If there's always space for a little more hurt, Sora thinks stubbornly, then there's always, always room for a little more love.) 

"Any of it," Sora says fiercely. "Whatever it is you're thinking about right now specifically. But especially not the past. So don’t—don’t go around suffering in _silence_ next time.”

He swallows, balling his hands into fists. “Okay.”

“_Really_, Riku.” Sora takes his face between his palms. “I’m here. I _want _to be. I’m not—some ideal you have to be worthy of, I’m me, and you’re not what you’ve done, you’re you. And I want to be with you—here with you. Got it?” 

“Got it.” His eyes are wet.

“_Here,_” Sora insists. "Not back there, not back _then_. _All_ of it, _now_. That’s all I’ve ever wanted—you.” He flexes his grip, like he can hold him together with the force of his will alone. “_You_," he emphasizes, holding Riku tight, wishing hard for the pressure of his fingers in return, for some kind of sign—and just like that he knows exactly what to do. 

He steps away, confidently holding out his hand. 

Riku’s face melts into something aching and soft and so devastatingly sweet that it shatters Sora's heart and pieces it back together in the space of a second, stronger than it was before. 

“Okay,” he says, and he finally sounds like he believes it. Then: “You love me.” It’s not a question, so he doesn’t wait for Sora to answer. 

_Finally_.

“You love me.” His hands open, and his fingers flex, unfurling like a sail. Sora watches them release, his heart full. 

“I don’t know when I got so scared of the future. Or… of my dreams coming true. I guess I started thinking that everything had a price, or that… if it was me, it would go wrong. I used to be the kid who thought we’d all make it across the ocean with nothing but some logs and a seagull egg, and if that didn’t work, we’d figure it out. I guess we kinda did.” Riku rubs his palm over his face, then takes Sora’s offered hand. “That’s still in me, when I’m with you—pulling off miracles. Believing in the best. You taught me how.” He nods to himself, and looks up, open and honest.

“Sora—I love you, too.”

There’s a new light in his eyes, bright, transformed. _You did it again_, Sora wants to say, but he thinks Riku knows.

“Good,” he says instead. Hand in hand, he guides Riku to the shelter of their bed. “If you ever forget again, I’ll remind you. Just so long as you remind me. And we’ll keep figuring out the rest as we go.” He tugs Riku down. “It’ll be an adventure.”

"An adventure," Riku agrees, meeting his kiss halfway. He lets Sora draw him onto the cot. Sometimes sleep—just sleep-—is as good as a spell. _Rest_, well-earned, even if he has his own reasons to be leery of it. But you can’t look for creeping darkness in everything—all that does is invite it in.

_No vacancy_, Sora thinks stoutly. 

They lapse into silence, long enough that he thinks Riku has maybe fallen asleep without his usual good night. But he can be forgiven this night, Sora decides. Or any night. Still, he opens his eyes to check and catches Riku watching him, his cheeks flushed.

“I really do like it,” Riku blurts, apropos of nothing. The tips of his ears burn an impressive shade of pink. "It's… I, uh—" 

Sora takes pity on him—but only a little bit. 

"Y’know what, babe?” He winks. “I think I could tell."

-

Sora wakes to a loud crash.

“Good morning,” he says to the cacophony. It croaks a good morning back, and Sora peels his eyes open to hazy darkness. 

It’s early. Even earlier than Riku early.

He sits up in bed, squinting through the darkness.

“Here, Sora,” Riku calls, pre-empting him. 

Sora follows the sound of his voice, relieved. There are plenty of broad shapes in the dark, but Riku’s is generally unmistakable. He’s standing stock still in front of what looks like the remains of a broken table, a look of complete surprise fixed on his face. Ash flurries around him, little flecks of it landing on his nose, and he looks at it in turn, wearing an expression of cross-eyed disbelief.

“What _happened?”_ Sora asks, wondering if he even really wants to know.

“Bathroom,” Riku murmurs, not sounding entirely there. His eyes are round, fixed on the place where the table split. “Thought I’d try to clean up on my way back—I tripped, and—” 

He waves. Sora nods. _Crash._

Riku’s elbow: one. Table: zero.

“Ah,” he says.

“Ah,” Riku agrees.

Sora wriggles back down into the bedding. After a second, he lifts up the blanket. “You wanna leave that til morning?”

Riku shakes his head slowly. Studious, he drops to his knees, leaning forward to touch the little pile. He’s looking for something. Sora watches, curious, as Riku moves little piles of rubble carefully but efficiently. It doesn’t take long for him to find what he’s looking for. He reaches out, his hand cupped to sweep something sparkly into his palm. A closer look reveals it to be two sparkly somethings—the blue and white crystals—their crystals! Sora looks to Riku, and can’t help holding his breath. There’s a strange expression on his handsome, sleep-softened face—one that he can’t quite read. It breaks slowly, like the sun breaks the line of the horizon, and then it makes itself plain—_understanding_. Sora has no idea what to make of it and is just starting to consider getting out of bed for real when, of all things, Riku starts _laughing_. The sound is pure—no edge of bitterness, no regret, just surprise, and so much joy.

“Riku...?” Sora tries, utterly bewildered.

Riku whirls to look at him, his eyes bright with childlike excitement. He makes a fist of the hand holding the crystals, opening it, then closing, then opening it again, for the moment inarticulate. 

“What is it?” Sora says, planting his feet on the floor at last. Whatever it is, it’s more than just the crystals, clearly, or he wouldn’t be acting like this. Hopefully it’s something he can head off at the pass—

Riku stops him with a dusty hand.

“_Love_,” he answers emphatically. “It’s love.” He gestures grandly at the mess, like Sora is supposed to have a clue what he’s on about. It looks like a pile of ashes and fractured wood to him. Maybe he's in shock from a splinter.

“...what?” 

“_Patience_,” Riku says, exuding it, and yet still not elucidating a single thing. “Time. Care.”

“Uh… huh.” 

“The _crystals_,” Riku says, a shy smile lighting up his eyes. 

“Can you start making sense?” Sora gripes. “It’s too early for this.”

Riku hauls himself to his feet and crosses the floor in a few steps, only to fall to his knees on the bed beside Sora. He bends down to cradle Sora’s face in his charcoal stained, crystal-filled hands like it’s a given, like he knows exactly where it will be. 

“That’s what heals,” he insists, still breathless, and grinning the stupid _make me_ grin that knocked Sora flat in the first place. “_Love_.” 

“Oh." It takes a second for it to hit, and when it does, it _hits_. Twin fragments of glassy, faceted space rock dig into his cheekbone, and he can’t even bring himself to care. They’re singing a harmony with him. Sora sniffs surreptitiously, and Riku swipes a thumb under his eyes, tender as can be. It leaves a mark. Of course it does. He wouldn’t have it any other way. He pulls him down for one kiss, and then another, and then another, sure to fill each one with patience, time, and care, laughing with Riku all the while. “Is _that _all?”


	3. live free or die babe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY WHAT’S UP bonus coda because i feel deeply embarrassed and sorry that it took so long: 
> 
> B A B E
> 
> Revenge of the Riku
> 
> G A T E
> 
> and now it's off to a land of ice and of snow <strike>if i can control my spiral into rarepair hell over in a 20 year old dead book fandom oh god help</strike>

_Later. _

_Much later. _

_(Who's counting?)_

The curtains in the Mysterious Tower have developed a bad habit of drifting directly over their bed. Probably one or both of them daydreaming an island breeze. Weather doesn’t really exist in the Worlds Between, not unless it’s willed. It’s bothersome, but sweet. They’re especially fond of skimming Sora’s side with a reasonable imitation of a lover’s touch, but they can’t hold a candle to the real thing dozing in his arms—but then, nothing can, so it’s no fault.The breeze picks up even as he thinks it, like it’s grateful for his indulgence, then settles. It’s faintly warm. Sora doesn’t need three guesses to figure out who he can thank for it.

He yawns. Piece by piece, he collages the world around him into the perfect picture of a lazy afternoon. His fingers bunched up in Riku's faded purple shirt, settled in place over his heart. The tickle of Riku’s hair up his nose. Beyond the curve of his broad shoulder, a pair of crystals side by side on the nightstand, throwing blue and white beams of light. And, Riku’s breath- slow and even, but not deep enough for him to really be sleeping. 

Sora nudges him. 

Nothing. Hm.

He feels no particular urge to move nor has anything he really even wants to say, but all of a sudden he wants Riku’s attention like a cat wants a perfect patch of afternoon sunshine. Sora nudges him again. “Hey, Riku.”

Riku grunts. 

Faker.

He plants his forehead directly between Riku’s shoulder blades. 

“Yeah?” he grumbles.

“Rikuuuuuuu.”

“Yeah? Really?” His back shifts and rolls under Sora’s cheek. That’s about all the warning Sora receives before he flops over, collapsing directly onto Sora, who lets out a hearty _oof_. 

“Huh,” Riku continues smoothly. “I never would have guessed, but when you put it that way—”

_“Babe_,” Sora protests through a mouthful of hair. "Get _off._"

“Later, if you're up for it.” The muscles in his back shift again as he folds his hands over his stomach, philosophical. Sora wriggles, shoving hard as he howls his displeasure.

“_Move_.” No way for him to get smart about_ that._

“Nah.” Riku lets his weight go decadently dead. Putting aside the indignity, the feeling is pretty nice. He’s very warm, and on second thought Sora doesn’t actually want him to move, but it’s the principle of the thing.

And also the smugness of his voice when Riku adds: “Think I’m ensconced.”

“Oh yeah?” Sora wrests his right arm free, wielding his pointed fingers like daggers. “Ensconce _this_—”

Riku’s eyebrows lift. He waits a beat, then flips over, hemming Sora in with his limbs. 

Well. Okay. Fine. Consider him ensconced, too. Some surrenders are actually hidden victories. Those pesky butterflies say so, anyway, and they’re usually right about… oh, everything.

“Good morning,” he greets, throwing his arms around Riku's neck. 

The corner of Riku’s lip ticks, dangerously closing to creasing. There’s an extended chess metaphor here, somewhere. “It’s one in the afternoon.”

Sora shrugs. Like that means anything in the Mysterious Tower. It might as well be half past thirteen.

“Ah,” says Riku, nodding his concession. “Good morning, then.” The ends of his hair brush Sora’s cheek. Ever courteous, he pushes it away, and Sora voices his loud protest, dragging him back by the crown of his head and pushing his nose into the shaggy lengths of silver until Riku gets the picture. 

“Sap,” he accuses.

Sora shrugs. He’s accepted it. Also, glass houses. “You gonna grow it out?” he half asks, half suggests. He rakes enough of Riku’s hair forward that it hangs over his eyes, where it’s sure to irritate him most.

“Gonna cut it all off,” Riku drones, blowing it back out of the way. “Shorter than Cid’s.”

“_Mm_.” Sora pictures it, and it’s worth a thousand words. He starts teasing his overgrown fringe vaguely upwards. “That’s nice. Love to see your eyes.”

“—grow it to the floor—”

Sora makes a soft, delighted noise. “_Nice_.” His fingers twitch. “Put my hands all up in it—”

“_Dye it purple_,” Riku goes on, haughty, “if you like it so much—”

“Go for lavender, babe, it suits you—”

“Hate you," Riku says, disgusted..

Sora grins. “Sure you do.”

Riku drops to the side and hides his face in a convenient pillow. Good thing for him Sora knows exactly what that means now. 

“Hey,” Sora teases, giving his ear a little flick. “Be glad I didn’t go with baby.”

“Every day,” he says, monotone, morose, mulish—did he lose his tail, too? Honestly. Eeyore._ Love you_, Sora thinks at the grumpy pile of blankets and hair. He wonders if—no, how _long_ he could get away with putting a bow on him. Riku would probably pretend it wasn’t there and go about his missions stone-faced, or make a show of vehement distaste until Sora found him one in gingham. Or yellow. Sora smiles at the thought. It’s dangerous, assuming Riku doesn’t have a sense of humor—no better way to find yourself speared on the blunt end of it. Like so much of himself, he keeps it close—but he’ll wield it for Sora. There isn’t a lot Riku wouldn’t do for him. Sora’s not typically one to take advantage of that, but as he watches Riku bask in easy, casual affection, he realizes that maybe there are some exceptions to the rule—one in particular that he finds he’s been waiting on for some time.

“Alright.” He sticks a finger into Riku's ribs, decided. He gets the entire hand smothered with a pillow for the trouble—like that’s enough to stop him. “I want one.”

“What?” comes the muffled reply. “You heard me!”

He sounds very patient and also very, very exasperated when he refines the question—Riku and his balancing acts. “One _what_, Sora?”

"A ‘_baby’_," Sora says. "Duh."

Riku stiffens, then rises up out of the sea of blankets to peer down at him, visibly deciding whether or not Sora is actually serious. (It kind of reminds him of Ursula, with the hair to match, but maybe that's an observation better kept to himself.)

“I think," Riku begins, his voice half an octave too high. He clears his throat. The whites of his eyes show. Sora struggles to maintain his composure. "Sora, I think we’re a little young—adopting is a serious responsibility, and we don’t exactly have a home base or a lifestyle conducive to—”

“I meant the _nickname_, silly.” Sora hits Riku’s shoulder with the heel of his hand, somehow rounding up just enough grace not to laugh in his face. “But hey, since we’re on the topic- I’m kicking around a few ideas, but Isla is my runaway favorite for a girl.”

“You’ve been—” Riku croaks. His eyes go very round and faintly wet, but he doesn’t _look_ like a flight risk. This time. He swallows, thick. “Isla,” he repeats, lowering himself back down to the bed.

"Nice, right?” Sora chirps, steering the conversation back to slightly more emotionally stable waters. If he thinks too long about having a _family_ with Riku he’s likely to cry himself, which is counter to his current goals. “Anyway, you heard me! My turn, buster!” 

Riku gives him a pointed and very pained look that plainly states they will be returning to the previous topic of conversation—if not today, then the sooner side of eventually. But Sora refuses to be thrown off course.

"I'm waiting," he says, shimmying over so he can drum his fingers on Riku’s ribs. 

Riku’s stare flicks down to the hands on his torso, then back up to Sora. “I’m not as good with _names_ as you are," he says, flat. If it’s meant to be a comeback, it’s as bad as they come.

Sora clicks his tongue and waves the jab away. He’s stalling and they both know it. "Who cares! Do it anyway!"

“Sora.” It’s reproach, not an answer, but there’s wiggle-room in that. He can work with that.

“Aw, c’mon. Like you haven’t thought about it?”

The wall suddenly becomes incredibly intriguing to Riku. “No,” he says directly to the wall, and definitely not to Sora. Probably because he can't look him in the eyes and say the same.

“Not even _once_?” Sora tries.

He heaves a sigh that Sora can _feel_ under his hands, and Sora knows now, without a doubt, that Riku’s a dirty liar. Sora rolls, using the momentum to put Riku on his back, then parks himself squarely on Riku's chest. To Riku’s credit, he doesn’t even flinch.

“_Tell me_!” Sora demands in a heated whisper. It’s a refrain he hasn’t had to sing for a while.

“I don’t—” Riku looks askance again, and Sora tells himself it would be ridiculous to be jealous of a wall. “I don’t know if I like how it sounds,” he finishes.

Sora narrows his eyes. “What, in your _head_?”

Riku frowns. 

“Then how would you _know_,” Sora crows, triumphant. 

The frown deepens.

Uh huh. Sora cups a hand around his ear. “Hm, weird. Still not hearing it.” He taps Riku's throat. "Is this thing on?"

Riku swats him away, shielding his exposed neck with his free hand. It makes him look more scandalized blueblood than seasoned warrior. Doesn’t help that he has such nice, elegant hands. Covering them up with gloves all the time is downright evil.

“I didn’t—it’s not, I don’t know, _unique_—”

“What,” Sora scoffs. “Like I invented _babe_?”

“Maybe.”

Sora scoffs again, and adjusts his weight; Riku brings a hand up to his side to steady him, and Sora shoots him a look. _The_ look. The_ you are not off the hook_ look. 

Apparently it works, because Riku huffs his defeat. “You're gonna laugh.”

“Can’t promise I won't,” Sora agrees cheerfully. “But it'll be because you make me laugh. You know that adds years to your lifespan, right? Riku, you take _such_ good care of me—”

“Alright, alright.” Riku groans. “_Sap_.”

He really needs a new playbook. “That does _not_ count,” Sora counters immediately. “It has to be _nice_.”

Riku bats his hand away, put out, then snatches it back, palm up, to press Sora’s fingers one by one into careful little C-shaped curls.

Sora bites his lip, unreasonably charmed. 

“Hey,” he says, turning his hand to catch Riku’s and lace their fingers together.

“Hey.”

“Try it,” Sora encourages, softer this time. He dips, dropping a kiss to Riku's knuckles. “But only if you want to.” Sora gives his hand a little squeeze for strength, and something passes over Riku’s face- determination in the face of certain doom. So _dramatic_. Even the curtains start billowing.

“Riku…?” 

"Sweetheart," he declares. His nose wrinkles, like it sometimes does when Sora foists the more interesting items on the Bistro menu off onto him. (_They’re snails, Sora. What’s butter gonna do?_ ) He tries it again, to arguably even less success, which is honestly kind of impressive. 

Sora presses his lips together politely. If the whole Keyblade thing doesn’t work out, maybe diplomacy is in the cards. “Okay, don’t strain something—”

"Sweetheart," he interrupts a second time—low and utterly serious, uncannily like Master Yen Sid. His brow creases, his eyes narrow; he looks like he's trying to master a spell that just won't respond to the magic words, and Sora is the thing he’s trying to enchant. And, to his credit, it _is_ working, just maybe not the way he planned.

“Alright, alright, I _get_ it—” Sora has to bite his lip so he doesn't laugh right in his face. "You can stop, that’s the _worst_—”

Riku rolls his eyes. "Happy now?"

"You don’t even _know_." Sora claps his free hand to shoulder and gives it a conciliatory squeeze. "Thanks for trying anyways, babe."

Defeated, Riku pulls Sora’s hand to his face, hiding behind its insufficient span. That does it. Sora laughs, long and loud and bright, and when he recovers, he finds Riku watching him from between his own fingers, the strangest, sweetest look in his eyes. That’s his “nevermind” face. Sora stills, the breath he’s just taken caught in his throat. Riku releases his hand and reaches for him.

"Sunshine," he whispers, leaning in to bump his nose to Sora's. 

Sora's eyes cross, and then his thoughts grind to a halt. Wait. What?

Third time’s the charm, apparently. Riku throws his head back and laughs. The melodious staccato only gets louder the longer Sora gapes at him like a beached fish. Worst of all, he can't even see the indignant, demanding face Sora’s making, because his eyes are all scrunched up in that striking laugh of his. Some Prince Charming. Sir Riku and his _Sunsh-_

The only thing for it is to fall onto Riku and kiss him, hard. Not punch, he reminds himself, even if he’s sorely tempted.

“You _planned_ this!” Sora accuses, just as soon as he's torn himself far enough away to take a real breath. Riku's still laughing, the _jerk_. Sora's pulse thuds so hard he can feel it in his ears. His cheeks are aflame. His knees are a little weak, too, so it's a good thing he's not standing. “I can’t _believe_ you!”

Riku only quirks an eyebrow—_one stupid eyebrow_—

“You _hustled_ me," Sora moans, and buries his face in his hands.

Riku claps a hand to his shoulder, giving it a mocking little squeeze. "I kinda did, yeah."

The walls can have him, actually.

“I'm Riku and I'm better at _everything_," Sora whines. He should have seen it coming, but he was too busy gloating. You think he would have learned from every last villain they’ve both come across—

Riku wraps his fingers around Sora’s wrists, taking Sora's meltdown in stride. “Not everything,” he allows, ever the gracious victor, and pulls Sora’s hands away from his face to steal another kiss. It’s infuriating, because if Sora could be annoyed, he wouldn’t be so—so—_taken_ by him. No, that’s a lie. He's still bothered. And very warm. They go hand in hand. He hadn’t known yet when he was younger that _that_ was the reason Riku got so far under his skin.Sometimes it still takes him by surprise.

_If only I could see me now_, he mourns, face-planting directly into Riku’s chest. 

"You okay over there?" Riku murmurs to him, sympathetic. There's a suspicious beat, and Sora can_ hear_ it coming, hurtling like a speeding train—helpless, tied to the train tracks as Riku twirls his imaginary moustache—"..._sunshine_?"

Riku doesn't even protest when Sora sticks his thumbs in the corners of his mouth and starts tugging, he's that proud of himself.

“_You_,” Sora howls, and Riku starts laughing again. His eyes slip halfway shut, their green bright and deep and so obviously in love, and it looks—well, horrific, actually. His mouth's still all prised open like he's at the dentist. He looks demonic. Sora doesn’t know if he has ever loved anyone or anything more. It's too much. It's everything all at once. Sora gives the corners of his mouth another outraged tug. He'd deserve it if Riku bit him. He won't, though. Well, not like this, anyway.

Hiding, right. It seems a reasonable enough plan. Possibly defenestrating himself? There are options. 

"Show _you_ sunshine," he grouses. It's weak and he knows it.

Riku takes hold of his wrists again. 

"Every day," he says, meeting Sora’s gaze evenly. He smiles, soft, but not the least bit unsure, and all the air leaves the room at the same exact second Sora’s heart stutters to a halt in his chest. 

How does he manage to do it? To hide it all in the hush of his voice? To sneak up on him like this, quiet despite the weight of all that he carries? Riku and his riddles. It’s a declaration, but it’s a question, too, and Sora rises to the occasion, already on the metaphorical tips of his toes. Nothing old, and nothing new. So much happily borrowed, and given, too. Something purple. _Lover._

“You _too_,” he demands, twisting his wrists out of Riku’s hold, freeing them both for what he knows is coming. “Every day.”

“Every day,” Riku agrees readily, and offers his hand, palm up.

_To open doors_, Sora thinks. He’ll never get tired of them.

He takes it, and crosses the threshold into another new beginning.


End file.
